To Stay the Shadow
by Vain
Summary: SS/HP slash. Once upon a time Severus Snape fell in love. And then everything went wrong. Written for the 2008 Snarry Games - Team Phoenix
1. To Free

**_To Stay the Shadow_**  
- Vain  
03.01 – 04.27.2008

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**Standard Disclaimer:**  
I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. All the definitions preceding the chapters are taken from "The Devil's Dictionary," by Ambrose Bierce, originally published in newspapers in a serialized version between 1881 and 1906 as "The Cynic's Word Book," and then bound and republished in 1911 under its current name.

**Summary:** SS/HP slash. Once upon a time Severus Snape fell in love. And then everything went wrong.

**Warnings: ****SS/HP slash**, Book 6 & 7 S.P.O.I.L.E.R.S. Please note, this story is **NOT** Book 7 compliant; AU-ish; language; angst.

**Rated: R**

**Length:** roughly 25,400 words.

**Notes:** This fic was written for the 2008 Snarry Games for Team Phoenix.

**Prompts**: Reckoning & Ashes of Youth; **Genre**: Angst

**Special Thanks** once again to the mods for not killing me after email # 3, and especially to my _invaluable_ betas **Venivincere**, **Alisanne**, & **Ziasudra** for beating me with Spelling, Grammar, and Diction Sticks (and to **Bethbethbeth** and **Tsujton** for the additional edits). They are now my personal heroes and made this story a thousand times better; all remaining errors are solely my own. Also, much love to the rest of Team Phoenix for all their help and support. This would _never_ have been completed if not for you guys' feedback and encouragement.

**Plagiarism is no one's friend.**

Enjoy!

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**Part One:  
To Free**

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**EMANCIPATION**, _n._ A bondman's change from the tyranny of another to the despotism of himself.

_He was a slave: at word he went and came;_ _  
His iron collar cut him to the bone._ _  
Then Liberty erased his owner's name,_ _  
Tightened the rivets and inscribed his own._ _  
—G.J._

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

_H_is knuckles were red from being rubbed too much. Harry had been wringing his hands again.

Severus sat across their small dining room table from the young man he'd come to share both his quarters and his life with and remained silent, simply sitting and staring at the former Gryffindor's dull expression for several moments. He should have been angry. After all, he was far more the victim here than Potter.

Hadn't he done his duty?

Kept his promise?

Three years . . . Was that really how long they'd been together? And then somehow during those three years they went from being Severus Snape and Harry Potter to becoming this strange, amorphous SeverusHarry creature.

Really, this whole exercise in stupidity had imposed on _his_ time and _his_ life. He had opened his quarters to the Potter whelp. He had had to deal with every sob session and mood swing and petty argument and insufferable, frantic episode the brat had had ever since the last year of the war. _Every_ time Harry Potter had faltered and fallen, Severus had been there to lift him up. Moreso even than those insipid friends of his whom he loved so dearly. If anything, the brat should be thanking him on bended knee!

Severus's lip twitched towards a sneer, but there was no heart in it and the expression was gone almost as soon as it appeared. He had found several years ago that it was becoming very difficult to sneer at the boy and mean it.

Ha—Potter looked up. Even at 23 years old, his hair was still a mess. Strands stuck up in the air whenever he scrubbed his hands through it as he so often did and would occasionally fall into his face. He no longer wore his glasses, the cokebottle lenses sacrificed in favor of Muggle contact lenses. The lack of spectacles made his eyes seem more prominent and accented the gentle, masculine lines of his face rather than obscured them. And Harry's eyes—those damnably green, almond-shaped eyes—were still as vibrantly green as ever, always lighting up at the first sign of injustice or abuse towards anyone, himself included. It was the eyes that always held Severus's attention—the rest of the package was really just trim. Still, he did not look his age. And he certainly did not look like he had not only survived a war, but been integral to winning one. The only visible signs of the trials the boy had been through were his trademark lightening bolt scar and a second long, thin scar slicing from his left temple and down at a very slight angle to wrap around his jaw line, touching the soft, vulnerable skin of his neck. The scars, and his eyes. Always those eyes. There was nothing distinctly different about them, but sometimes when he thought no one was looking, they would grow distant and sad. Or dark and shuttered.

Those were the times that Severus both liked most and feared most. Then, the boy was silent and wholly undramatic, weighed down by loss and a price that no one should have demanded of him. Weighed down and dragged back to earth, yes. But also weighed down and nearly broken under the burden. Then, faced with the pale wreckage that few other beings on the planet ever saw, Severus would wonder how he was ever supposed to keep his oath.

Only now, there was no more oath to keep, was there?

Now . . . He was free. His debt was finally discharged.

"We're done."

The dusty whisper broke the silence and surprised the Potions Master so much that he started. For one wild moment he wondered if he had been the one to say it, but then Ha—(_Potter, damnit!_)—looked up, looking as though something within him had shattered. Severus froze beneath that emerald gaze, unable to say anything. If the boy wanted to, he could kill him right now . . . simply dash him away in a hopelessly overwhelming burst of magic before Severus could ever hope to raise a proper defense.

_Foolish boy. You have no **idea** how powerful you are . . ._

Harry licked his lips and Severus had to pretend for a moment that he was not painfully aware of what that tongue felt like on his skin.

"I said that we're done now," Potter repeated in that dry, too old voice. The betrayal in his eyes cut deeply. "Your debt is absolved."

Somehow, Severus had not expected that.

"Aren't you going to go?" the boy demanded harshly, voice cracking pitifully at the end. "Aren't you going to—" He broke off and looked away, choked for a moment.

Severus stared at him across the small table and did not move. For a long moment, the only noise was a log popping in the fire. Harry still did not look at him and the room seemed unbearably hot. Potter twisted away from his cold, piercing gaze like a bit of tinder licked by flames.

Severus's eyes narrowed. "These are my quarters."

The words hung in the air like a physical thing and Harry . . . _Potter_ flinched and looked up at him with a hopelessly wounded expression.

Severus said nothing.

"I . . . I see." The boy stood, reddened hands shaking.

He pushed his chair in under the table and Severus watched in silence. The boy's shoulders were shaking. And when he raised his gaze to the older wizard's again, his green eyes looked clouded behind a thick veil of unshed tears.

"Did I mean anything to you? _Me_?" he asked after a pause. "Anything at all?" His voice trembled, but somehow seemed strong all the same. "This . . . Any of this . . . Did it ever matter to you? At all? W-when we made lo—" He caught himself, staring hard into his former lover's eyes. "When we _fucked_ . . ." The word sounded cold and harsh coming from his mouth. "Did it mean anything to you? Even for an instant?"

The Slytherin met his gaze calmly. He knew the answer the boy wanted. The spilled memories on the floor were evidence enough of that. And perhaps he was guilty of the implied accusation. But he didn't owe Potter anything. Not when memories of _her_ lay splattered across the floor.

"Potter, when we began this . . . 'liaison,' you asked me why I permitted it. I told you then that you were the burden I had chosen to carry until my life's end. Did you think I was joking? Do you think that you have ever been anything more to me than an obligation?"

Harry stared at him, seeming to be searching for something, but Severus simply stared back. What is not present cannot, after all, be found, no matter how hard one searches. After a few minutes, Harry seemed to realize this too, for he stood, back straight, and turned to go, head bowed sadly. "Then I release you from your obligation, Severus Snape. You truly are free now."

The boy . . . man . . . walked towards the door, stepping over the hopelessly shattered Pensieve and the silver memories staining the floor as he went, and took his cloak off of what had been _his_ peg for the past three years. He paused at the door and looked back over at the man he had come to depend on more than he'd thought possible. Severus looked back, his face as expressionless as the porcelain Death Eater's mask he used to wear.

Harry took one final look around the chambers that had been the only home he'd ever really had. ". . . I will send for my things." And then the young man turned and walked out of the room, leaving Severus Snape alone to stare at the fire and wonder why he felt _anything_ but free.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**


	2. To Sow

**_To Stay the Shadow_**  
- Vain  
03.01 – 04.27.2008

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**Standard Disclaimer:**  
I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. All the definitions preceding the chapters are taken from "The Devil's Dictionary," by Ambrose Bierce, originally published in newspapers in a serialized version between 1881 and 1906 as "The Cynic's Word Book," and then bound and republished in 1911 under its current name.

**Summary:** SS/HP slash. Once upon a time Severus Snape fell in love. And then everything went wrong.

**Warnings: ****SS/HP slash**, Book 6 & 7 S.P.O.I.L.E.R.S. Please note, this story is **NOT** Book 7 compliant; AU-ish; language; angst.

**Rated: R**

**Length:** roughly 25,400 words.

**Notes:** This fic was written for the 2008 Snarry Games for Team Phoenix.

**Prompts**: Reckoning & Ashes of Youth; **Genre**: Angst

**Special Thanks** once again to the mods for not killing me after email # 3, and especially to my _invaluable_ betas **Venivincere**, **Alisanne**, & **Ziasudra** for beating me with Spelling, Grammar, and Diction Sticks (and to **Bethbethbeth** and **Tsujton** for the additional edits). They are now my personal heroes and made this story a thousand times better; all remaining errors are solely my own. Also, much love to the rest of Team Phoenix for all their help and support. This would _never_ have been completed if not for you guys' feedback and encouragement.

**Plagiarism is no one's friend.**

Enjoy!

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**Part Two:  
To Sow**

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**YESTERDAY,** _n._ The infancy of youth, the youth of manhood, the entire past of age.

_But yesterday I should have thought me blest  
_ _To stand high-pinnacled upon the peak  
Of middle life and look adown the bleak_ _  
And unfamiliar foreslope to the West,_ _  
Where solemn shadows all the land invest_ _  
And stilly voices, half-remembered, speak  
Unfinished prophecy, and witch-fires freak_ _  
The haunted twilight of the Dark of Rest.  
Yea, yesterday my soul was all aflame_ _  
To stay the shadow on the dial's face_ _  
At manhood's noonmark! Now, in God His name_ _  
I chide aloud the little interspace_ _  
Disparting me from Certitude, and fain_ _  
Would know the dream and vision ne'er again._ _  
— Baruch Arnegriff_

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

_H_e was nine years old when he first laid eyes on her. She was beautiful. And he was lost.

It would be weeks before he hesitantly approached her, all young arrogance and bluster, and still weeks more before she was able to reach past that and touch some quiet place within him that he'd never known existed, but even then, he knew he loved her. He'd never been surer of anything in his short life.

Howarts was supposed to be a sanctuary for him—for _them_. Yet it all went wrong from the start. She was so clever and so cunning, he was sure she'd be in Slytherin; Slytherin, and thus an acceptable match, despite her Muggle origins. How wrong he'd been. The Hat yelled Gryffindor and Severus's heart broke. It wasn't right. It wasn't _fair_. But there it was and there was no helping it.

Still, House rivalries would not deter him. He withstood ridicule and shunning by his housemates just to be by her side. He withstood the crude taunts and cruel pranks of the Gryffindors just to be nearby when she smiled. And then one day all his hard work was rewarded when, leaning over her Charms homework, she looked up at him and _smiled_ and he knew in that instant that maybe she could love him. Maybe his devoted affections would be returned. Maybe . . .

But it was ruined, of course, just like everything else in his miserable life—ruined not even a week later by his eternal tormentor, James Potter.

Miserable, sneaking _James Potter_, always jealous that her smiles and laughter were for a Slytherin and never for his nasty little Gryffindor cohort. Potter could never accept that, and Severus had reveled in his victory. Lily's affections were worth far more than any of his counter-pranks in their House war. But then he said it.

Mudblood.

The word was out of his mouth before he could contain it. He hadn't meant it and certainly had never meant it to be directed towards _her_ of all people, but the damage was done. And, hanging upside down a second time as she walked away, defeated, ridiculed, and humiliated, he knew that he could not undo it. _That_ was his worst memory—not the prank, but hurting her, the one person who was always supposed to be safe and the one person he wanted to protect most of all. After that, it was all over.

Their friendship had always been strained at Hogwarts. She'd never liked Lucius and Macnair and Bellatrix and the rest of the people he'd foolishly called his comrade, if not always his friends. His slur was really just a confirmation of her worst fears that he was walking down a path she couldn't follow. And he was too hurt, too proud, and too _stupid_ to apologize.

In the end, it was a sin worse than taking the Dark Mark: his damnable _pride_. Even at that young age, his pride had been his greatest enemy. It would have only taken a breath to undo the damage, but it also would have meant swallowing his pride. And that, of course, was the one thing Severus Snape would never do. So ultimately, it was not so much that Potter had won her; it was that Severus had _lost_ her.

She had always been his to lose.

He broke her heart and it ended up costing him his soul. His life was spent regretting the past. If only he hadn't lashed out at her. If only he had stopped her from walking away. If only he had had known the right words to make her accept his apology. If only he hadn't let hurt and anger drive him into the Dark Lord's service, even as the same emotions drove her into James Potter's waiting arms. If only he hadn't told the Dark Lord the Prophecy. If only he had gone to the Potters to perhaps save her. If only . . . If only . . . .

But he could never make things right again. The time was past for those ruminations. It died in a flash of green and the rubble of the Potters' ruined home. Everything—_everything_—had died with her. Everything but the boy.

He was thirty-two years old when he first laid eyes on him. The boy was eleven years old and underfed and too short to be a First Year. And he was the spitting image of James Potter, all except for the wonder and wide eyes and amazement he showed without reserve at the simplest of Charms. And his eyes . . . he had Lily's eyes—_exactly_ Lily's eyes. And Lily's spirit—her kindness, her fire, her grace. Even mixed in with Potter's cavalier arrogance, the brighter shine of Lily Evans was evident. And he was lost.

There had been days when Severus was defeated by the simplest of gestures. A hand running through wild hair. Laughter shining in brilliant green eyes. A secret flash of a smile. They were his undoing, even if only seen by proxy. Because it wasn't _her_ hand running though her fiery red hair, and those green eyes were not _her_ green eyes. The smile and the secret behind it were not _hers_ . . . And yet . . . and yet, he could not handle himself. Not in the face of such memories.

It was humiliating.

_"He has her eyes, Severus._ Exactly_ her eyes."_

Damn Albus to hell.

So he stayed away—a surprisingly easy task when _so much_ of James Potter was in the boy's volatile mix. And some Tom Riddle was there, too. In disturbing amounts.

It wasn't right. It wasn't _fair_.

Perhaps it was the universe's twisted form of justice: to be bound to look over the perverted form of the only person he'd ever loved and the constant reminder of the one crime for which there could be no absolution.

Really, that was all he wanted: absolution. Forgiveness.

Albus had thought to give it to him, but even with the man's best intensions, he found only a different kind of servitude under the kindly headmaster's wing. Albus was in the business of saving nations and worlds, after all. In comparison the blackened, bloodstained soul of one Severus Snape was a small consideration. Even Severus could appreciate that; it didn't mean that he didn't resent it though.

But when it was _Potter's_ head on the chopping block—young, naive, frustrating Harry Potter, who more and more seemed far too much like Lily and not enough like that bastard James . . .

It had to be some sort of cosmic joke—one he fully expected to end in his own demise. It would have been a balancing of the scales, after all. He'd killed Lily. It seemed only right that he should die for Harry. Yet again and again, death eluded him, leaving him instead to endure an ever more tumultuous world as he watched the noose Albus and the Dark Lord had made tighten around the boy's neck.

Potter didn't deserve a death like that. No matter how much Severus resented him or resented what he stood for, the boy did not deserve that death.

In the end, he'd really had little other choice. Again, the circumstances contrived against him, forcing him ever deeper into Albus's machinations and the Dark Lord's scheming. He bowed beneath the madness of two different masters, each an absolutist in his own way. But if bowing meant sheltering Potter, then he would bow until he broke.

It was a promise he'd made to both himself and to her. It was a debt he owed, not to Potter, but to the past he could never undo. And really, in the right light, the boy looked strikingly like Lily. For Severus, that was almost enough.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**


	3. To Reckon

**_To Stay the Shadow_**  
- Vain  
03.01 – 04.27.2008

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**Standard Disclaimer:**  
I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. All the definitions preceding the chapters are taken from "The Devil's Dictionary," by Ambrose Bierce, originally published in newspapers in a serialized version between 1881 and 1906 as "The Cynic's Word Book," and then bound and republished in 1911 under its current name.

**Summary:** SS/HP slash. Once upon a time Severus Snape fell in love. And then everything went wrong.

**Warnings: ****SS/HP slash**, Book 6 & 7 S.P.O.I.L.E.R.S. Please note, this story is **NOT** Book 7 compliant; AU-ish; language; angst.

**Rated: R**

**Length:** roughly 25,400 words.

**Notes:** This fic was written for the 2008 Snarry Games for Team Phoenix.

**Prompts**: Reckoning & Ashes of Youth; **Genre**: Angst

**Special Thanks** once again to the mods for not killing me after email # 3, and especially to my _invaluable_ betas **Venivincere**, **Alisanne**, & **Ziasudra** for beating me with Spelling, Grammar, and Diction Sticks (and to **Bethbethbeth** and **Tsujton** for the additional edits). They are now my personal heroes and made this story a thousand times better; all remaining errors are solely my own. Also, much love to the rest of Team Phoenix for all their help and support. This would _never_ have been completed if not for you guys' feedback and encouragement.

**Plagiarism is no one's friend.**

Enjoy!

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**Part Three:  
To Reckon**

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**DEBT**, _n._ An ingenious substitute for the chain and whip of the slave-driver.

_"As, pent in an aquarium, the troutlet  
Swims round and round his tank to find an outlet,  
Pressing his nose against the glass that holds him,  
Nor ever sees the prison that enfolds him;  
So the poor debtor, seeing naught around him,  
Yet feels the narrow limits that impound him,  
Grieves at his debt and studies to evade it,  
And finds at last he might as well have paid it."_  
— Barlow S. Vode

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

_I_t was just after 5 pm on May the 9th, 1996 when Albus Dumbledore called Severus Snape to his office. Neither man was in a particularly good mood at the time. Severus was still in a tear over the very illegal _Sectumsempra_ Curse one Harry Potter inflicted on Draco Malfoy, and Dumbledore . . .

Well, Albus was suffering. Even Severus could see that.

For all the tension in the castle, May had rolled in as mild as a lamb and when Severus entered the Headmaster's office a gentle breeze was moving through the air. Dumbledore stood by the open window, staring out over the grounds with eyes that looked more watery than bright, his ruined right arm hidden by his body. Somehow, though the scene appeared pastoral, there was something ominous about it. In the sixteen years since Severus had returned to Hogwarts, he had never seen the Headmaster look so . . . defeated.

The sight disturbed him greatly.

"Come in, my boy." The old man's voice creaked faintly, like a broken gate hinge on a windy day.

Severus turned away, unable to face the pale shadow that Albus had become, his eyes settling almost gratefully on Fawkes's perch as the bird began to awaken. "I would rather not," he started stiffly. "I have work to do, Head—"

Albus did not turn. "Severus. Sit."

His voice was still strange, but there was a tremor of power hidden away within that reedy thinness. The Potions Master shivered at the reminder that—ill or not—Albus Dumbledore was not a man to be trifled with.

From his perch in the corner, Fawkes watched with attentive black eyes. Like his master, he looked slightly bedraggled: his feathers graying and his viciously hooked beak slightly white at the edges. Phoenixes aged quickly close to their burning day. But there was still an air of undefeatable strength about the bird. As though reading Severus's thoughts, those beady black eyes remained fixed and unblinking and the perch creaked in an almost unheard protest as the creature tightened his talons around it. Phoenixes, the Potion Master suddenly remembered dully, were raptors of a most fearsome variety.

A minute passed, measured out in ticks and tocks by an unseen clock. Then more ticks. More tocks. Severus's palms grew sweaty. When neither the headmaster nor his familiar moved, the Slytherin finally conceded defeat with a scowl and moved to sit down warily in the leather chair he always favored for these little visits. It was away from desk and instead by the overly-cozy little tea setup. The chair was ridiculously and unnecessarily comfortable, but at least the absence of the desk made Severus feel _slightly_ less like a recalcitrant schoolboy.

Those days were long past.

He could hear Albus breathing ever so faintly across the room. It sounded like leaves whispering down the streets in the autumn.

. . . The misery of the times aside, there were some days that Severus thought he'd kill to be a schoolboy again. If only to undo the past.

Still disquieted by the unusual atmosphere, the wizard automatically reached for his ever-present teacup, dark eyes fixed on the Headmaster. His fingers closed around empty air. Startled, the Potions Master looked away from the old man and stared blankly at the table next to his chair. No tea. No cakes. Not even a single one of those disgusting lemon drops. The Slytherin blinked, uncertain what to do in the face of this abruptly tea-less world in which Albus stood silently staring out the window when he entered the room.

The clock continued to tick unseen. Fawkes continued to stare, and Albus continued to stand. The leather chair squelched loudly as Severus leaned back heavily in the seat, as though empathizing with his discomfort. The sound seemed to rouse Albus from his apparent stupor and he turned. His face was lined with weariness as he made his way over to the tea table. Again, Severus turned his gaze away. It had never been in his nature to countenance weakness—whether it be in himself or in other. Seeing Albus like this . . . it disgusted him. And it broke his heart.

The Potions Master had never been adept at matters of the heart and so the only way he could avoid the situation was to ignore it—a tall order when his expertise was so desperately needed to try to forestall the inevitable.

The headmaster smiled as he settled wearily into the seat across from the younger wizard. "Does it bother you so much?" he asked in a strangely gentle tone.

The Slytherin responded with a glare, forcing himself to look directly at his mentor and confidant just to prove that he could. "I've seen worse."

"I'm sure you have, Severus, but I was not talking about my arm." His blue eyes twinkled slightly, but the expression lacked the vigor of years previous and it could not shadow the soft pity the man felt. "Does it bother you so much to see me die?"

_YES!!_ But instead of the cry he wanted to let loose, Severus merely narrowed his eyes. "Why have you called me here, Headmaster? Are you feeling unwell?"

Though the sneer did not quite conceal the other man's genuine concern, the elder wizard's expression dimmed slightly. ". . . No, Severus. Nothing like that. I merely need your help with something." A hand that was not quite as strong as it once had been raised and signaled with trembling fingers, silently summoning a small box from his desk.

Severus was not sure whether or not the display was for his benefit, but part of him wanted to curse the man as a fool for wasting his energy on such a mundane task. But then, the Headmaster knew that Severus could not tolerate weakness. He perhaps had known that before Severus did.

The younger wizard remained silent as the Headmaster set the box on the table in front of him and leaned back, obviously waiting for the Slytherin Head of House to take it. With a slight scowl at the cloak and dagger behavior, Severus reached forward and opened the box, moving as though he expected the relatively harmless-looking container to bite him. He frowned slightly when the act revealed nothing more than a small scroll sitting harmlessly inside.

Severus looked up at Albus, clearly waiting for an explanation.

"It is a covenant. And absolution." When Severus didn't move beyond pursing his lips slightly in irritation, Albus couldn't help but smile at the man's eternally suspicious nature. "I am offering you a chance to repair the mistakes of your youth, Severus, and to reconcile your debt to me. And to Potter. And to Lily."

". . . What trick is this?"

"No trick," Albus responded calmly. "Merely a promise."

Severus glared at him, waiting for the Headmaster to make his intentions clear. "A promise to what?"

"To continue to protect Harry Potter."

The Potions Master opened his mouth to protest, but Albus raised his withered hand in a silencing gesture. The somewhat dramatic move punctuated the import of the request, presenting a blacked and ruined example of why he would demand such a thing.

"Not his body, Severus. His heart. I want you to look after more than his safety. I am entrusting to you his wellbeing. His happiness. Look after him in my stead."

Severus sneered. "More special treatment for your Golden Boy, Albus?"

"_Compassion_," the older man corrected wearily, "not special treatment."

"Your compassion strongly resembles favoritism, Headmaster."

"And even if it does? You know as well as I do that, our respective opinions of the lad aside, we _need_ Harry Potter. The world needs him. Even you need him, Severus."

The Potions Master looked over at him sharply, his dark eyes flaring in anger, but Albus waved the expression off. "You know this to be true, even though you despise it."

"I told you before, Albus, that I would not be your martyr."

"Then consider it a fair trade, Severus. Have I not promised you that I would protect Draco Malfoy? Am I not willing to go even that far to secure your favored pupil's future and to steer him from the dark path his parents have set him down?"

"Narcissa—"

"Is not the issue here. Consider it a fair trade if you must speak in terms of a barter. A life for a life. Draco's future for Harry's."

"And you would give your life so now I must, too? That is a tall order, even from you, Albus."

"Severus . . ." The old man sighed softly, looking suddenly drained. ". . . We are losing. And without him, this world will not survive . . . not if it is to be a world worth living in. Our lives are in his hands."

"He's a child!" Severus hissed in response.  Something like anger crossed Albus's face, but it vanished almost as soon as it appeared. "And you know as well as I do that destiny is indifferent to age. How old were you when you made your mistakes?"

Severus flinched, but Albus persevered. "He will be alone in the world. Does he not deserve some measure of peace in his life?"

The words hung heavily between the two men, polluting the soft twilight atmosphere like a bad scent that could not be ignored. Severus stared up at the man who was and had always been his mentor, his confidant. His friend.

A life for a life. Debt expunged. And then freedom . . . freedom from the pain in his heart . . . from the taste of ash in his mouth whenever he saw Lily Evans' bright green eyes staring at him accusingly from James Potter's face.

_Peace._

Severus felt old as he looked at Albus in that moment. Old and small. "Draco does not deserve his fate."

Albus nodded slowly, wisdom borne of suffering in his eyes. "Neither does Harry."

Severus turned away.

"You loved the boy's mother once. Is it so hard for you to find any sort of affection within you for her child?"

"Lily is gone, Albus."

"Yet she lives on . . . I know you see her within Harry, Severus. You may lie to yourself, but you could never lie to me."

The other man looked up sharply, a strangely exposed expression on his face for a moment before he could compose himself. ". . . Love has its limits."

"And so does vengeance," the older man countered. His voice was quiet, but the weight of his words seemed to add resonance. "And you have a debt to pay."

Severus swallowed heavily and lowered his head. His hands curled into impotent fists, but he could not argue when the truth of the situation was so boldly stated. He did have debts to pay: a life debt to Potter. A life debt and a debt of loyalty to Albus. A debt to Narcissa. And his debt to Lily . . .

For Lily . . .

Such heavy obligations could never be discharged—not when her blood still stained his hands. His chest ached—weighed down by the duty being foisted onto him. The situation was sickeningly familiar.

"What must I do?"

Albus smiled. The fact that the man had not stormed out in a fit of pique meant that the battle was already half over. Beside, Severus was not stupid. However much he may have hated the fact, he knew that his only chance for peace lay with Harry Potter. The headmaster reached forward and took the scroll out of the box and held it out to the man.

"Merely watch over him, Severus." The headmaster settled back in his chair, weariness returning again. "Try to bring a measure of happiness to his life as best you can. Protect him from those who would harm him. And don't let him be alone."

A trembling hand reached out and accepted the contract. ". . . For how long?"

If Albus could hear the strained rasping in his voice, he was unmoved by it. "Until he no longer needs you."

The simply spoken words induced a sharp bark of humorless laughter. "For the rest of my life, then?" He closed his eyes tightly and rubbed his face tiredly. "I will be trapped in this until I die?"

Albus merely smiled. "Remember, my dear boy, to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure."

Severus glared at him for a moment, but the expression failed him as his gaze drifted to the older man's ruined arm. The clock ticked loudly in the background and the fire popped in the silence. For a long moment, the two men stared at one another and then the only sound punctuating the silence was the scratch of Severus's quill against dried parchment.

_For Lily._

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	4. To Recommence

**_To Stay the Shadow_**  
- Vain  
03.01 – 04.27.2008

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**Standard Disclaimer:**  
I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. All the definitions preceding the chapters are taken from "The Devil's Dictionary," by Ambrose Bierce, originally published in newspapers in a serialized version between 1881 and 1906 as "The Cynic's Word Book," and then bound and republished in 1911 under its current name.

**Summary:** SS/HP slash. Once upon a time Severus Snape fell in love. And then everything went wrong.

**Warnings: ****SS/HP slash**, Book 6 & 7 S.P.O.I.L.E.R.S. Please note, this story is **NOT** Book 7 compliant; AU-ish; language; angst.

**Rated: R**

**Length:** roughly 25,400 words.

**Notes:** This fic was written for the 2008 Snarry Games for Team Phoenix.

**Prompts**: Reckoning & Ashes of Youth; **Genre**: Angst

**Special Thanks** once again to the mods for not killing me after email # 3, and especially to my _invaluable_ betas **Venivincere**, **Alisanne**, & **Ziasudra** for beating me with Spelling, Grammar, and Diction Sticks (and to **Bethbethbeth** and **Tsujton** for the additional edits). They are now my personal heroes and made this story a thousand times better; all remaining errors are solely my own. Also, much love to the rest of Team Phoenix for all their help and support. This would _never_ have been completed if not for you guys' feedback and encouragement.

**Plagiarism is no one's friend.**

Enjoy!

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**Part Four:**

**To Recommence**

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**BONDSMAN**, _n._ A fool who, having property of his own, undertakes to become responsible for that entrusted to another to a third.

_Philippe of Orleans wishing to appoint one of his favorites, a dissolute nobleman, to a high office, asked him what security he would be able to give.__  
"I need no bondsmen," he replied, "for I can give you my word of honor."  
__"And pray what may be the value of that?" inquired the amused Regent.  
"Monsieur, it is worth its weight in gold."_

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_V_oldemort officially delivered the Wizarding World its first full-blown war in sixteen years on a peaceful Thursday morning, two hours before dawn on August 1st, 1996. It was a belated birthday present to Harry. Aurors had gone to the house on Privet Drive to bring Harry Potter into custody at the Minster's insistence and found themselves facing Death Eaters and a contingent of banshees. In the ensuring battle, Little Whinging was quite literally wiped off the face of England and every wizard and witch found the violence that had been looming since Harry Potter's return to their fold suddenly cresting over them in one great wave of bloodshed. Wizard and Muggle alike, Voldemort attacked without compassion or discrimination, killing entire families. Not even the infants were spared. And over every house and on the field of every battle where Harry Potter did not emerge, a glowing message was scrawled on the walls or across the sky, or even into the earth itself, laying the slaughter at the young man's feet and trying to goad him to come out of hiding.

But Harry Potter was nowhere to be seen. At the stroke of midnight on July 31st, the world's savior had walked out of the well-kept house on Privet Drive, walked calmly down the street, and Apparated with a loud _crack_. No one had seen hide or hair of the boy after that; even his closest friends vouched ignorance. That claim, however, was quickly negated by the fact that Hermione Granger, Ronald and Ginny Weasley, Luna Lovegood, and Neville Longbottom all vanished on the first of September when Hogwarts open black-draped gates to admit a noticeably smaller collection of solemn, hollow-eyed children into its well-guarded and warded halls.

From his position at Voldemort's side, Severus was torn between being frustrated to madness by the disappearance of Potter and his little entourage, and actually _admiring_ the dunderhead for somehow vanishing so cleanly and completely.

He had sworn to Albus that he would protect the boy and stand by him and he had every intention of doing so. The oath was sealed with a bloodless Avada Kadavra and etched into stone along with Albus's white tomb. The Headmaster had kept his end of the bargain. Draco was so rattled by the old man's death and Voldemort's halfhearted Cruciatus Curses in reprisal for the boy's failure to kill him and Snape's necessary intervention, that he'd turned spy shortly after the battle on Privet Drive, weeping like a child into Headmistress McGonagall's skirts. Two days later, after the defecting Malfoy was inducted into the Order of the Phoenix, Albus's portrait deigned to share the exact nature of Severus's apparent betrayal with the Order.

Once everything had settled back into some semblance of order, Draco would later tell him that it had not gone over well. Frankly, Severus didn't care. Albus was dead, his apparent charge was missing entirely, and Voldemort was so thrilled with Severus for killing the aged Headmaster that he rarely let the Potions Master out of arm's reach. In his younger days, when he was stupid and power-hungry, Severus would have gladly given up a limb for such treatment. Now, though, he only wanted to escape it. Escape, and find Potter and discharge this damn debt that weighed him down.

With Severus feeding Draco and the Order information from Voldemort's side, one would think that the war would end fairly quickly. Voldemort's growing lunacy however, and the sheer, unparalleled amount of power that the Dark Lord brought to bear kept everyone on their toes, even his own allies and followers. And as time passed, Voldemort seemed to become more and more unhinged and more and more determined to find the boy. _"He's got my soul, Severus!"_ the old serpent would hiss. _"I know it. I can **feel** him coming."_

Severus had never been sure quite how to react to such ominous statements and Voldemort had never really expounded on them within his hearing.

Once the man had even literally paced the confines of Riddle Manor and cursed Potter and Dumbledore from dawn to dusk. Even as his madness grew, however, he stepped up the attacks . . . and so too increased the toll the war took on the country, both wizards and Muggles, as the violence blurred the lines of race, breeding, and creed as the death toll crept its way into the thousands. Even the Muggles knew that something was wrong, the Continent and the States were treating England like an international pariah, and despair was settling over the land like a black cloud. It was all the Ministry and the Order could do to keep pace with the Death Eaters and the tension between the two organizations did little to aid the cause.

Then, on a cold, rainy evening on the 15th of October, 1996, a small contingent of black-clad wizards was caught breaking into the home of Rufus Scrimgeour. A fierce battle ensued, during which the thieves' leader-apparent managed to find and hopelessly destroy a priceless book written by Rowena Ravenclaw. The Minster, however, managed to capture and unmask the young man, revealing the prodigal Harry Potter. Upon seeing their friend's face revealed, the other stood down and were promptly identified as the Granger, Weasely, Lovegood, and Longbottoms scions, each looking a good deal more hardened than a year ago and decidedly unhappy about their capture. They went quietly with the Aurors to the Ministry dungeons.

Scrimgeour's ruthless determination and the careful application of Veritaserum extracted a story about Horcruxes, "special training" under the eye of some unknown contact of Dumbledore's, and a rather harrowing account of the group's less-than-Ministry-approved activities that would never be released to the public. It was only a good deal of paper shuffling, subtle threats, and blackmailing on the part of Arthur Weasley, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Minerva McGonagall that freed the six former Hogwarts students.

Whatever the circumstances of their return, the sight of Harry Potter did wonders to rally the people . . . And struck terror into Voldemort and the Death Eater. The violence was stepped up and for a moment it seemed as though the whole of the wizarding world teetered on anarchy. And then Harry Potter retaliated.

The Battle of Knockturn Alley turned the tide of the war, but it also killed something in Potter. Years later, the boy would share the whole story with him, but then Severus only knew that the Light was suddenly escalating the war at a mad pace and Potter was leading the charge. And the Dark Lord was losing his mind. What Potter and the Light did not regain through strike after strike, Lord Voldemort lost due to his own growing psychosis, so that when Potter did finally face him—the boy hardened by war, honed by suffering, and ruthless in his grief and his need to avenge a death Severus was not yet aware of—the tables had turned. No longer was Harry Potter a scrappy underdog, surviving by luck and vague, disorganized guile; no, now they were equals. It was that, more than anything, that the Dark Lord was unprepared to face.

In the end, it didn't matter. On a warm summer morning a year after Potter's returned to the Wizarding world, Draco Malfoy ended Voldemort's cursed life with two small words. With the last of his Horcruxes destroyed, the former Tom Riddle did not stand a chance before the power of the Elder Wand. Voldemort himself destroyed the final bit of his soul when he tried and failed to kill Potter with an Avada Kedavra. The blood magic initiated by Lily Potter's sacrifice held true and the only thing within the boy that could be destroyed was the last remnant of the Dark Lord's soul. Realizing what that meant before anyone else, Draco successfully disarmed the Dark wizard and reclaimed the wand he'd fairly won when he disarmed Dumbledore in the tower that fateful night and cast the curse almost before his former master could respond. Almost. Voldemort's last word was '_Ectus_' and it cost Draco his life in a wash of blood, but the boy had won the war for them in an instant.

Severus was not sure it was worth the loss—particularly when he'd sacrificed _everything_ to keep the arrogant, hopelessly talented Slytherin alive. He'd never thought a Malfoy would be a martyr.

There was the clean up, of course. The Death Eaters, werewolves, and Dementors did not take the loss of their leader lying down and they had nothing left to lose. A ferocious battle followed, destroying a portion of the Forbidden Forest and raging over the Quidditch pitch. It would take years before the castle grounds recovered. It was a small blessing at least that the walls were never breached. In the end, Voldemort's forces did not stand a chance—not with an impassioned band of Gryffindors leading the way, leaping into the fray where even the most seasoned of Aurors flinched. Potter fought like a man who had nothing to live for.

And Severus fought because it was the only thing he still knew how to do.

The day was long and bloody and when it was over, it felt more like the end of everything than the beginning of a safe new world. Everything seemed bloodied and broken, including the boy who was supposed to save them all.

Like the scarred, churned up fields surrounding Hogwarts, Potter did not escape the war unharmed. After the Final Battle—a proper noun now, thanks to the efforts of the Ministry—Potter lay still and unresponsive in Saint Mungo's for several weeks. Whether it was serendipity or Dumbledore plotting from beyond the grave, Severus was assigned to the bed beside his in the small private room. With most of their beds full and the press clamoring for even a sliver of information about the so-called war heroes, the Final Battle's wounded were ensconced under heavy guard on the highest floor of the hospital, two and sometimes three to a room.

It was Minerva and Kingsley's influence that saw Severus in such pleasant accommodations. Though unconscious at the time, he would later learn that the Aurors had originally wanted to take him to Azkaban straight away. It was a lucky thing, too. His lungs had been badly damaged by a Backfiring Jinx from Lucius. In the long run, however, Severus would have to count himself the winner; he was comfortable in a bed at Saint Mungo's. Lucius had been subjected to Veritaserum and would soon be fodder for Dementors. The long convalescence aside, Severus got the better end of things, even if that convalescence was spent with Potter.

Minerva and the oddly helpful medical staff provided him with books when he asked and felt well enough to read, but mostly Severus thought of Draco. His mourning was a quiet thing, punctuated by the pain of his physical recovery and the mixed blessing of Draco's death. He'd failed the boy, of course, and failed him horribly. But in death, Draco had found both the peace and the respect he'd always craved in life. He was a hero of the highest caliber. He and Potter were both honored as saviors. And most of all, he'd seemed . . . ready when his ending came. Severus had been at his side at the time. He knew.

Voldemort had raised his hand to strike Severus down, finally recognizing him as a traitor and believing him to be the true master of the Elder Wand. He'd been prepared to die in that moment—was almost anxious for it. But then Draco was there at his side with a surprising calm '_Expelliarmus_,' and the wand practically leapt from Voldemort's hand to its true master. After that, there was nothing but a wash of green light, but Draco's curse was first and true. The boy had died with a small smile on his face, even as his body was torn to shreds in an instant by Voldemort's last, desperate spell. It seemed as though the boy was finally free of the demons that had plagued him since taking the Mark. As Severus stood by, stunned by both his own survival and the wreckage of the young man he'd known since infancy—a young man who, moments before, had stood strong and alive at his side—he couldn't help but envy Draco his peace. He doubted he would ever know such a thing.

Narcissa came to visit him once. He awoke to find her sitting by her bed, looking pale and drawn. Broken. She had not participated in the Last Battle and had not been charged with any crime, but she was defeated as surely as if she had been put into Azkaban along with her husband. By the door, he could see an Auror standing guard, watching them.

He moved to say something, but his lungs were still too weak, the spell having scorched their insides. Instead he gasped softly. She smiled at the attempt, a thin, fragile expression. It did not suit the cold beauty for which she had been famed in their youth. She touched his cheek and her hand was cold like marble. Then she leaned over and kissed his brow lightly and departed with another sad smile and the crumbled remnants of her regal air. Only the faint scent of her perfume remained as evidence that she had come. He did not see her again and somehow knew that he never would, though it would be several weeks before word of her suicide was made public.

Left alone with Potter, at first the Potions Master did his level best to ignore the ungrateful whelp. This was surprisingly simple as Potter was unconscious for the first several days and then was either asleep or unresponsive to anyone's inquiries after that. But then the days rolled into a week, then two, and then three. Severus slowly recovered from his war wounds, but Potter just lay there, refusing to respond to anyone. The get-well cards lessened to a trickle and the visitors slowed to even less than that until only Granger, Weasley, Lovegood, and Longbottom would visit. There was little to be gained in talking to a wall, after all.

When they would come, Potter would turn away and remain mute, staring blankly at the wall just above Severus's bed. This did not curb his friends' enthusiasm, of course, thus forcing the former spy to endure an hour or two of their prattle before a mediwitch would and shoo them out. Once, Granger had foolishly tried to rope him into their discussion—an attempt that quickly ended with a well placed comment about the love bite on her neck. The Ravenclaw among them was wiser in her attempts to engage him, however. She would occasionally sit by his bed silently as the other chattered on, and once she left him a small bottle of a Sweet Dreams potion. Lovegood, if he recalled correctly, had always excelled at potions.

As week three rolled into week four and the recovery of Potter's mind lagged behind that of his body, Severus had decided he'd had enough. If he had to endure Ronald Weasley reenacting any more of his favorite Quidditch moments, he would surely go mad. And so, he waited until the mediwitches did their late-night check and verified that all the lights were out and then took his wand and whispered, "_Aguamenti_" in a soft voice.

A jet of clear water shot out of midair, perfectly targeted to sleeping Potter's face. The young man jerked awake with a yelp and flailed comically for a moment when the act earned him a jet of water right down his throat. Severus chuckled silently and cut the spell short before he accidentally drowned the idiot boy.

Red-face and sputtering, Potter turned to glare at him, his green eyes flashing in the pale moonlight shining through their shared window. "Think this is funny, do you?"

Severus watched him without replying. The moonbeams fell fully over Harry's bed, leaving Severus sitting in the shadows. It gave him a perfect view of the boy's face. He'd seen it in the papers, of course, but not really in person—not up close like this. Potter had spent most of their convalescence together with his back to Severus whenever the Potions Master had been awake to see it and, to be honest, Severus thought that he was well familiar with Harry features.

Looking at him now, however, in the pale white light, he was not so certain. The war had aged Potter. Previously unmarred, his face was now scarred with a thin line colored an angry red. It sliced down his left temple, angling towards the cheek and down towards his throat. While a bit fearsome to behold, it also somehow softened the boy's features and gave him a less . . . obstinate look. The lack of glasses was also notable. It made the boy look older and oddly mature for such a small change. It also made his eyes more visible. They looked greener than Severus recalled.

Potter growled, an odd sound. "Well?" The boy was always so easy to rile.

Severus leaned back on his pillows (it was still hard on his lungs to sit upright) and smirked unpleasantly. "So the great Harry Potter deigns to speak to us lesser mortals." His voice was nowhere near its normal disdainful drawl, but it got the point across quite well. "Should I be honored?"

Potter's face twisted unpleasantly in the silver light, the expression pulling unattractively on the two scars marring his face. He turned away, lying down again on his wet pillow with a sullen air. "And what do you know of it, Snape?"

For a moment the former spy considered offering to dry the pillow. The boy's wand had been shattered at some time during the chaos and he'd bound with another, but this one was withheld from him until the mediwizards felt it safe for him to begin practicing magic again. Considering his refusal to talk to anyone thus far, Potter had not yet been given that permission. The young man's antagonistic air did not particularly move Severus to kindness though. The only reason he had even ventured this intervention was because of his promise to Albus. That, and he was certain that the pandering of the brat's friends and fan club would never provoke a reaction.

Finally Severus rolled over a bit, shifting to more comfortably observe his reluctant roommate. "What do I know about sulking self-pity?" he retorted derisively. "Not as much as you, it would seem. How long are you going to continue this, Potter? Celebrity will only go so far in excusing bad behavior."

Burning emerald eyes alight with anger turned his way and Severus felt a thrill of pleasure at the sight. He enjoyed needling Potter to such an extent that it was almost counterproductive, but it was well worth the extra aggravation.

"You really like to kick a man when he's down, don't you?" the boy snapped back bitterly.

"While _you_, Mr. Potter, may enjoy hearing Weasley and his chit natter on for hours on end whilst you stare blindly at the ceiling, too full of yourself to condescend to speak to them, _I_ would like to spend the remainder of my convalescence in peace."

Potter rolled over stiffly, his injuries seemingly aggravated by his earlier activity. "Then get another room."

Severus scowled. He'd forgotten that Potter was just as good at irritating him as he was at irritating Potter. "There are no other rooms, something you would be aware of if Granger's words had managed to penetrate that thick skull of yours."

Potter ignored him, apparently deciding to revert to his formerly mute ways. Several moments passed as Severus's vexation grew. He was hardly anyone's first choice at offering comfort. Having rarely ever received such a thing, he had no inclination or affinity for giving it. Still, he was trying. Someone had to snap the boy out of his malaise, and while he didn't have any concrete clue as to the cause of the boy's current behavior, it was clear that the young man was not _happy_. And Albus had been right, the boy did deserve _something_ in his godforsaken life.

He mulled over the problem for a moment before it occurred to him that someone had been conspicuously absent on the battlefield . . . and in the few Order meetings he'd attended: the one bearable Weasley child. And also, Potter's erstwhile girlfriend, if he recalled correctly.

Severus frowned, evaluating the man hunched over in the bed across from him in a slightly different light. This was the part of the story where the hero and the love of his life were supposed to ride off into the sunset together. That was how it had worked for Potter senior, and yet his spawn remained alone. Ginevra Weasley had actually been one of the few Gryffindors he could stomach. If she were alive, she'd have been here at Potter's side at least once. Or her louse of a brother would have mentioned her at least once in his prattle. Merlin knows that the boy had talked about everything else. Severus didn't even bother to read the _Prophet_ anymore—Weasley was turning into a walking digest.

But the question remained, where was the girl?

He eyed Potter closely for a long moment and then released a silent sigh. If there was no delicate way to prod at the wound, then he may as well plunge into it headlong. "How did she die?"

Potter flinched as though struck. The act was more of a confirmation than any verbal response could have been.

Seeing an opening, Severus pressed on. "It _was_ Ms. Weasley, wasn't it? Who did it?" The girl had been too fine a witch to stumble foolishly into her death, Gryffindor or no.

The silence stretched on between them as Potter seemed to ignore his questions. Severus merely waited, staring at the back of the boy's head and waiting for him to crack. Patience was one of the few virtues he possessed, and in situations like this, he possessed it in abundance.

Finally, after perhaps five or ten minutes of quiet tension, Potter sighed faintly. ". . . Lestrange," he whispered at last. The name seemed to flow out of him, like steam releasing from a valve. It floated low to the the floor and Severus found himself nodding. Of course. Bellatrix.

"Knockturn Alley," Potter continued, seemingly unable to form whole sentences. His voice sounded thick and his breathing seemed heavy.

_Ah._ Bellatrix had died in that battle, her body torn apart by a force that only the Dark Lord seemed to understand. The loss of his most loyal follower had been a severe blow to Voldemort.

Potter remained silent after that, his meager supply of words apparently exhausted for the moment. Severus considered rolling over and going back to sleep . . . and maybe drying Potter's still-wet bed and clothes . . . but something held him back. It was a morbid kind of curiosity, but he saw something of himself in Potter in that moment. He wanted to dig at it—bring it to the surface. Make it bleed.

"Did you love her?" The words rolled off his tongue before he could reflect on them. Even to his own ears, his voice sounded curiously flat. He wished he'd had a moment to find a way to inject some sort of false scorn into it.

Across from him, Potter's shoulders were so tense, it was a wonder the boy didn't shatter. For a moment it seemed like he would ignore the question, but then he rolled over unexpectedly. His face was devoid of emotion, but his eyes were suspiciously bright. "Have you ever been in love, Snape?"

Something within Severus recoiled and his first instinct was to lash out at the bold question. But he then he was suddenly painfully aware of the Dark Mark still emblazoned on his arm, the tattoo remaining despite the fact that the magic that had put it there was forever extinguished. The sensation of it clouded his thought for a moment and he suddenly found the truth slipping from his lips. "Yes. Once." It was a whisper, as though he were sharing some great secret. And he couldn't look away from those damned eyes. "But it was a long time ago. Before you were born." The words were offered as though they were an excuse and for some reason, the older wizard felt a painful and suffocating sense of shame roll through him.

Potter continued to watch him, seemingly oblivious to the maelstrom his simple question had ignited in his companion. " . . . What happened to her?"

"I . . ." He couldn't breathe. He couldn't look away. He felt naked and exposed underneath that calm, hard gaze and had an overwhelming urge to cover himself. "I turned around one day and she was no longer there." _I chased her away._ ". . . She died." _Because of me._ "I could not save her."

Potter continued to stare for a long moment before looking away. Severus felt as though a weight had shifted once that gaze was gone and exhaled loudly in the quiet of the room.

Potter rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. "I couldn't save her. I was right _there_ . . . and I couldn't save her. She had been aiming for me, but Ginny lept out and tried to disarm her." He swallowed heavily. "Tried to protect me. That woman killed her just to hurt me and laughed while Ginny fell. It was my fault."

Severus looked up, the flat words cutting him despite the dispassionate tone. ". . . It was a war, Potter. And Bellatrix was a madwoman. Even before Azkaban she was . . . not stable. I'm sure there was nothing you could have done."

"I could have stopped her from coming," he retorted stubbornly.

The Potions Master snorted. "Weasleys, Mr. Potter, are nothing short of a force of nature. Besides, would you have deprived her of the chance to be by your side?"

Part of him would always wonder if he would have drawn Lily into the darkness with him, or if she would have saved him. She had loved him, he was sure. Perhaps only for an instant, but in that instant his life had been complete. That might have been enough to save him in those days, before the world twisted in such a horribly wrong way.

The young man looked over at him with an expression that was something like surprise and maybe . . . understanding? Then his eyes narrowed slightly and his nose scrunched up in a familiar way. It was the same look Potter wore when hunting for the Snitch, or seeking to find new rules to break in his asinine attempts to play the hero. Severus did not particularly like having such a look directed at him.

"Do you still love her?"

The older man thought for a moment before choosing his words carefully. "Her sacrifice is the only reason that I still live."

The truth of the statement conjured another throb of regret. How much simpler his life would have been if he had died beside Draco in the mud that day or a thousand days before that. But life rarely took Severus Snape's preferences into account.

He refocused his attention on the boy, needing a distraction from the desperate longing to rest. "And you, Mr. Potter? Do you love her still?"

He watched as the boy clenched his jaw. "Yes."

Severus nodded, having expected no other response. "Then why do you refuse to honor her sacrifice?"

The boy blinked, clearly not understanding.

"You waste away in here," Severus continued. "You deny yourself every pleasure. You refuse food. You ignore your friends. You do nothing but sleep. Mourn her, Mr. Potter. Never forget her. Live your life for her, but do not forget to _live_ it." He stressed the last part with a strange kind of passion that seemed to startle them both, but he did not hesitate as he continued. "Ms. Weasley wanted you to live and no doubt be happy. Do not waste that gift or disrespect what she has freely given you."

Potter was silent for a moment, staring hard at Severus as though seeing the man for the first time. And perhaps he was. The whole discussion had made the Potions Master feel raw, like he had reopened an old, festering wound.

Irritated with himself, the older wizard laid down, abruptly deciding he was done with the discussion at hand. He had spent too much of his life under Albus's employ. The man must have rubbed off on him in some strange, uncomfortable way.

He was half asleep when Potter next spoke. While he did not reply to the hoarsely whispered, 'Snape? … Thank you,' he _did_ mutter a drying charm for the boy's pillows and clothes before tucking his wand back under his own pillow. It was really his fault the sheets were wet, after all.

The next day found Severus beginning physical therapy to work on rebuilding his lung capacity. The effort took the bulk of the day, and by the time he was brought back to their room, Potter was apparently asleep or malingering again. He was too exhausted to care and fell asleep straight away. He was quite grateful anyway; the last thing he wanted to do was continue the previous night's awkward conversation.

It was well past midnight when he woke again, this time to a strange sound. A quiet snuffling noise prompted Severus to reach for his wand before he was even fully awake. The comfortable feel of the Ash handle against his palm helped bring him to full alert and he lay still, trying to pinpoint and identify the noise without revealing that he was awake. It took him several moments to realize that the sound he heard was vaguely muffled crying. More surprised than he could put into word, the Potions Master opened his eyes and stared at Potter's bed, unable to quite believe what he was seeing. Harry Potter was lying in bed on his side with his back to Severus, crying.

These were not wracking sobs, nor were they pitiful whimpers. Instead, the boy's shoulders shook slightly in silence and occasionally a sharp, throaty inhalation would come. It was this sound that had awoken the Potions Master. For a moment, Severus stared; he had no idea what to do with this. He was typically in the position of _making_ people cry, not comforting them. But Potter was _his_ burden now and he couldn't just leave the boy there to cry. Alone.

In his entire life, Severus's tears had only once been met with comfort, and that was the night Lily died and he had found bitter solace in the hem of Albus's robes. Drawing on that, he slowly and painfully pushed himself into a sitting position and got out of bed. The slight noise of his rising instantly halted all sounds from Potter and the boy's body immediately tensed. Undeterred, the older man took several careful steps until he got to the other bed and then sat down on the edge of the mattress. Potter did not move and Severus couldn't bring himself to reach out and lay a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder as Albus had once done for him. His hands were stained with far more than potions ingredients and he knew he had little comfort to give.

Instead he looked out the window, eyes drawn towards a large waning moon. ". . . It will get better."

The comment earned him a dusty laugh from the boy, but there was no other response. After several minutes of awkward silence, the older wizard forced himself to stand. He needed to lie down again; his chest hurt and he was simply not suited to play wet nurse to a shell-shocked Gryffindor.

"Why are you being so kind to me?" Potter abruptly asked the wall.

Severus did not falter as he wearily pulled himself into bed. "I am not being _kind_ to you, Potter. Perhaps you are simply starting to realize that I am, and always have been, on the same side as you." He jerked the blanket up with more force than necessary.

Potter turned and looked at him with red-rimmed eyes. His expression was sober, something the older wizard was becoming increasingly used to. The boy never seemed to smile anymore. "Albus wanted me to trust you, you know. The whole time I knew him, he was always pushing me to rely on you."

An acerbic comment hovered on the tip of Severus's tongue, but Potter forged onward before it could escape.

"McGonagall showed me his Pensieve right before the end of it all, you know. When we were looking for the diadem. He left it for me."

Severus's heart felt frozen in his chest.

"I saw some things about you." Those green eyes bored into him. "I saw how you helped him towards the end. And how you tried to protect me." The boy's mouth twisted slightly. ". . . _Should_ I trust you, Professor?"

The pressure on his heart abruptly eased. The brat apparently had not seen anything damning after all. But again, looking into those eyes, he lacked the wherewithal to lie outright. ". . . No," the former spy answered honestly. "But you should _believe_ me, Mr. Potter. Everything I have done has always been for your good." The bitterness in his voice was impossible to hide and so he made no effort to try. He'd told the boy as much before, but it was always much easier for him to be the villain—especially when his hatred was an easy thing to understand in comparison to the greater evils of the world. "I _am_ on your side, Mr. Potter—" If the boy registered that that was different than what he had said moments ago, he did not show it. "—And I have always been here for you."

Potter nodded after a moment, seeming to accept that, and rolled over.

The older wizard stared at his back resentfully for a moment. _Ungrateful brat._ "And I'll always _be_ here for you," he muttered in annoyance as he rolled over to try and go to sleep again. Though he wasn't sure, he though he might have heard Potter reply 'I know." But sleep reclaimed him before he could sort the matter out.

The next day, Luna Lovegood brought him a book—something about some sort of creature called a 'Nargle.' He nodded in thanks as she placed it on his bedside; it was his first acknowledgement of her attempts at kindness. The move earned him one of her oddly sweet, vague smiles before she turned her curious attention to where Potter was finally engaging his friends in conversation. It was a bit stilted, but it was a start. And for reasons he didn't quite understand, Severus found it oddly refreshing to see life back in those striking emerald eyes.

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	5. To Ensnare

**_To Stay the Shadow_**  
- Vain  
03.01 – 04.27.2008

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**Standard Disclaimer:**  
I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. All the definitions preceding the chapters are taken from "The Devil's Dictionary," by Ambrose Bierce, originally published in newspapers in a serialized version between 1881 and 1906 as "The Cynic's Word Book," and then bound and republished in 1911 under its current name.

**Summary:** SS/HP slash. Once upon a time Severus Snape fell in love. And then everything went wrong.

**Warnings: ****SS/HP slash**, Book 6 & 7 S.P.O.I.L.E.R.S. Please note, this story is **NOT** Book 7 compliant; AU-ish; language; angst.

**Rated: R**

**Length:** roughly 25,400 words.

**Notes:** This fic was written for the 2008 Snarry Games for Team Phoenix.

**Prompts**: Reckoning & Ashes of Youth; **Genre**: Angst

**Special Thanks** once again to the mods for not killing me after email # 3, and especially to my _invaluable_ betas **Venivincere**, **Alisanne**, & **Ziasudra** for beating me with Spelling, Grammar, and Diction Sticks (and to **Bethbethbeth** and **Tsujton** for the additional edits). They are now my personal heroes and made this story a thousand times better; all remaining errors are solely my own. Also, much love to the rest of Team Phoenix for all their help and support. This would _never_ have been completed if not for you guys' feedback and encouragement.

**Plagiarism is no one's friend.**

Enjoy!

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**Part Five:  
To Ensnare**

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**INTIMACY,** _n._ A relation into which fools are providentially drawn for their mutual destruction.

_Two Seidlitz powders, one in blue  
And one in white, together drew  
And having each a pleasant sense  
Of t'other powder's excellence,  
Forsook their jackets for the snug  
Enjoyment of a common mug.  
So close their intimacy grew  
One paper would have held the two.  
To confidences straight they fell,  
Less anxious each to hear than tell;  
Then each remorsefully confessed  
To all the virtues he possessed,  
Acknowledging he had them in  
So high degree it was a sin.  
The more they said, the more they felt  
Their spirits with emotion melt,  
Till tears of sentiment expressed  
Their feelings. Then they effervesced!  
So Nature executes her feats  
Of wrath on friends and sympathetes  
The good old rule who don't apply,  
That you are you and I am I._

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

_T_hey were friends. _Friends_, of all ridiculous things. Severus didn't even like the Potter brat, but sure enough, somehow they were _friends_. When he was honest with himself, he resented it. He didn't really treat the boy any differently. He was not kinder and did not curb his tongue. All he did was listen and prod the brat to stop feeling so sorry for himself. Doing so was selfish and indecent of the boy. The world was moving on and Potter _owed_ it to the dead to continue moving on too. He had never expected the whelp to take him at his word that night in the hospital, yet once the idea was in the boy's head there seemed to be no dissuading him.

At first, Severus hadn't even noticed. After their three-month stay in the hospital, the last of the injured participants in the Last Battle were released to find a world in chaos. Potter and his merry little band of followers moved on to the Ministry to help newly-elected Minster Arthur Weasley pacify the warring political factions and Severus returned to Hogwarts.

Though closed to students for a year to rebuild, the castle's inhabitants were far from idle. The school had mostly recovered from the ravages of the battle, but the scars remained in the land, the castle either unable or unwilling to heal them alone. The wards were also an issue. Wards thousands of years old had been severely damaged during the assault on the school when Potter and company were hunting for Ravenclaw's diadem. Rebuilding the old wards and reinforcing the newer wards that had been outright destroyed during the fighting was a mammoth task. Magic of every caliber was required, light and dark, minor and great. Hagrid's ability with magical animals was invaluable and having a Potions Master on site to help was tremendously convenient—especially if the school hoped to open to students in September.

There was also the issue of restaffing. Filch, Pomona Sprout, Trelawney, and Vector had all died in the battle, and Hagrid had been badly wounded whilst protecting a group of children who were being evacuated. The half-giant would require an assistant from now on to handle his beloved (and normally violent) animals.

Minerva was left with the grim task of coordinating all of these efforts, as the Board of Trustees had been rendered mostly defunct when over half its members were arrested as Death Eaters, and the Ministry was too busy trying to rebuild the country to bother with a single school. Severus was rendered almost speechless when she appointed him her deputy.

His rare moment of shock had been cut short by her curt, but oddly kind assurances. "There's no one left who is more suited to the job. And Albus would have been pleased with it."

The Potions Master had wanted to deny the latter assertion, but didn't have the heart to argue. Potter must have been correct; he was surely getting soft in his old age.

In truth, Severus had been planning to resign, sell his house at Spinner's End, and retire in quiet modesty somewhere far from Hogwarts and the Ministry. He had had more than a lifetime of headaches from being at the epicenter of global change. Minerva's appointment had given him pause, though. He felt a heavy obligation to help restore Hogwarts to her former glory; it was, after all, the only real home he had. And ultimately it came down to the fact that he felt needed there. If he didn't have Hogwarts to call home, he didn't really have anywhere. And so he threw himself tirelessly into the work of restoring the castle and grounds, helping Minerva bear the burden of duty that she had carried more than admirably by herself during his recovery. And oddly, he found himself to be quite good at it—especially when it came to handling the remaining Trustees and the occasional politician, tasks which Minerva loathed.

Within months, the castle was fully staffed again. Percy Weasley—considered a hero in his own right these days—surprised everyone by volunteering to aid Hagrid. The Ministry's failure to mobilize effectively against Voldemort and the deep corruptions discovered within their ranks had badly shaken the young wizard's faith in the government and it was a much humbler Percy Weasley who approached Severus and Minerva about the outstanding position. The Headmistress had gladly accepted him into the fold. Even Severus, who had no love lost towards his former brown-nosing student, had to admit that the boy's change in attitude was genuine. Longbottom stepped up to replace Sprout and settled into the greenhouses with such an air of competence that Severus could only find irritable respect within him towards the young man. Beauxbatons and even Salem Academy in America had offered up their own personnel to fill in the remaining losses.

The work was tiring, but fulfilling, and those days that Severus was not mucking through administrative matters found him in his dungeons, brewing potions to aid in restoring the wards. It was a comfortable rhythm, one he found himself taking to more and more. And the last thing he expected to see when someone knocked on his door one evening was Harry Potter.

He'd been keeping an eye on the boy, of course, but hadn't felt any worry for his witless charge since their discharge from Saint Mungo's. These days, it was actually difficult to avoid _some_ sort of news about Potter. Surrounded by his precious friends and willing to face the world again, Potter had been recovering at a more than satisfactory rate. And now, several months later, Potter, Granger, and the Weasley family had practically taken over the Ministry of Magic in their effort to bring about stability and reforms. The results were usually impressive and occasionally groundbreaking. But that did not explain why the boy was skulking about the dungeons and interrupting his tenuous peace.

Severus stared at him coolly for a moment as the boy—no, _young man_, now—fidgeted in the doorway. "… If you're looking for the greenhouse, Mr. Potter, you are in the wrong place." He looked back down to the potion he was stirring. "And I, as you can no doubt see, am busy."

Potter merely grinned as though he'd made a joke and slid into the room uninvited. He was dressed in his Auror robes and his glasses were strangely absent. The combination of the dark material and the lack of eyewear made him look older and brought out his eyes to a startling response. "What are you doing?"

"Interpretive dance," came the droll response.

Potter froze for a moment, as though unsure if he were being serious, and then chuckled a bit nervously. "I just meant . . . Ah . . ." The man ran a hand back through his hopelessly mussed hair and looked around somewhat sheepishly.

Severus paused in his stirring, irritated. "Did you need something from me, Mr. Potter?"

"I just wanted to help," he blurted suddenly. "I came to help with the wards, but they won't need me for several hours and Neville and Hagrid are both out, so I thought . . ."

The Potions Master stared at him expressionlessly for moment as the young man looked back at him with unhidden hope in his eyes. The moment stretched on between them until the boy's shoulders slumped suddenly and he started to edge towards the door, looking oddly like the student he had been only a few short years ago.

"Sorry, he mumbled, ducking his shoulders as he turned to go.

Severus sighed, annoyed with both himself and Potter. Personally, he would be more than happy to cut the boy down to size with a few well chosen insults, but he doubted that would quite mesh with his ridiculous promise to look after the brat. "Wait." It was more an order than a request.

The boy turned partially, looking half hopeful and half as though he were bracing himself.

". . . Where are your glasses?"

That had not been the question Severus had meant to ask. Still, the boy had the audacity to smile uncertainly. "Contacts. A Muggle invention."

Severus knew what contact lenses were well enough, but he used the moment to turn away from the other man. Strange, how vivid Potter's eyes were without the cover of spectacles. "I take it you remember how to work a mortar and pestle, Potter?"

That, oddly enough, seemed to perk the boy up again and he turned around fully and nodded, looking absurdly grateful.

"You know where the dung beetles are. I will need two pounds, finely ground. Get busy."

So began their ritual. Once or twice a week, Potter would show up to help with the wards and end up in the dungeons instead. The boy was usually silent during these times, pausing only to ask Severus a question about the potion or the ingredients and actually seemingly to listen when he responded. While Severus rarely dared let him near anything more complex than a knife, Potter's presence did seem to cut back on a great deal of the grunt work involved in making so many potions, leaving Severus to enjoy the brewing part of each potion. And strangest of all, Potter was surprisingly good at following directions once the logic behind the instructions was explained. So long as the boy wasn't irritating him, Severus was content to allow the situation to persist. Eventually Potter would get to the point of these visits, and in the meanwhile, Severus would reap the benefit of an extra pair of hands. With any luck, by the end of this, his potions lab would be completely stocked for the first time in years.

It only took about a month before Potter obliged him. The Auror was in Muggle clothes that evening, having apparently taken the day off to help out about the castle. How he managed to help with the castle atop his duties at the ministry was anyone's guess, but he seemed to be thriving under the rigorous demands of his schedule.

_Perhaps_, Severus considered wryly, _if we'd kept him this overloaded in school, he'd have stayed out of trouble._

Seemingly sensing the older wizard's eyes on him, Potter looked up. It was still strange to see his face without those damned glasses; it made it so much harder to find James Potter there. Oh, there were still traces of Severus's long-dead tormenter: the way he cocked his head at times, the shape of his mouth . . . But now his eyes dominated his face. For Severus, it was both distracting and comforting—a dichotomy that disturbed him.

"Do you still hate me?"

The question was blunt and asked without a hint of apology.

Severus paused in his work to consider it.

Used to his silences and long pauses by now, the boy merely set aside the dead mouse, whose fur he'd been meticulously plucking, and waited.

After a minute of thought, Severus turned back to his potion and added a cup of diced mushrooms. In truth, he wasn't certain how to answer. He'd resented the boy's existence as James and Lily Potter's son, but over the years, that had somehow faded as the boy became a person in his own right, separate from his parents. He'd also hated the boy for what he had thought had been pampered arrogance. After Potter's fifth year, though, it was abundantly clear that he had never had the childhood Severus had always attributed to him. In fact, Potter's childhood was far more like his own than James Potter's. Then there was the boy's disturbing resemblance to both James Potter and Tom Riddle before the man's first death. That combination had been both terrifying and infuriating, but it had changed—Potter himself had changed—during the last year of the war. The man who had returned to Hogwarts for the Final Battle was not the boy who'd left the year previous. In fact, Lily Evans showed through him far more than James Potter. And how could he hate that?

"No," he announced at last. He looked over, still keeping time with his stirs. "I did not hate you, Potter," he clarified. When it looked like the boy was going to protest, Severus glared at him pointedly and continued. "There was a time when I resented you. You were—and still are, I might add—frustrating to no end. I hated your naivety. I hated your infernal rule breaking, which constantly thwarted everyone's attempts to keep you safe. I hated your intolerable over-confidence. And I hated what you reminded me of. But I do not hate you."

Potter said nothing in reply for several minutes, turning back to his mice instead. When he broke the silence again, his voice was low and pensive. "I hated you. I hated you for the longest time, you know."

Severus said nothing. He knew. It was only to be expected after all.

Potter continued. "Even after I saw Albus's Pensieve and saw how much you helped him, I still didn't understand why he trusted you so much. You were always such a bastard." He looked up and Severus had to swallow hard and look away when faced with such an honest expression. "But then I saw your face when Draco died. It was the same look you had when Dumbledore was killed. I didn't really understand it, but I think . . ." His voice trailed off. "You thought you'd die in the Last Battle, didn't you?"

". . . Yes." He stirred the potion, staring fixedly into the thick brown liquid. He'd hoped he would. It would have been better…

Potter nodded, a barely glimpsed motion seen from the corner of his eye. "I'm glad that you didn't."

The calm statement made Severus look up in undisguised surprise.

"What we spoke about in the hospital," Potter explained. His eyes shined eerily like a cat's. "You were right. And you really helped me out. But now you have to learn how to live, too."

For an instant, Severus could do nothing but stare and wonder, not for the first time, just how much Potter had seen in Albus's Pensieve. Then he had his wand out before he could even think of which hex he wanted to cast. "Get out. Get out before I throw you out, Potter."

If his sudden reaction startled the boy, he didn't let on. Instead his eyes narrowed in irritation and he stood, grabbed his things, and left without a word. Severus remained still for moment until the boy's footsteps could no longer be heard and then, in a fit of pique, he tipped over the now-ruined potion, knocking the cauldron onto the dungeon floor. It sizzled when it hit the stone.

How dare he . . .

How _dare_ he . . .

He whirled sharply on his heel, leaving the mess for the House Elves to clean.

For the rest of the week, he was unable to return to the potions lab. Sadly, it was not because of work or because of the mess he'd left behind. No, it was because every time he walked in that room, he felt like Potter's eyes were watching him, waiting for him. And he had no clue how to handle that.

Potter seemingly had no such reservations, though. One week later, he was outside Severus's quarters, standing in the doorway as though he had some sort of right to be there, waiting patiently to be let in. Severus nearly slammed the door in his face. Potter's arm rose and blocked the action before it could occur.

"Look, I'm sorry."

Severus scowled and tried once again to close the door, but Potter's arm held it fast.

"I shouldn't have said that," the young man continued earnestly. "Just let me explain? Please?"

It shouldn't have worked. It shouldn't have been enough. But it was, and Severus held the door open with grudging reluctance, hating himself for wanting to make that stupidly desperate look leave those green eyes.

Even Potter seemed surprised as the door was opened to him, but he darted in quickly, lest the invitation be withdrawn. The fireplace was the only light in the sitting room and it threw weird shadows across the boy's face as he turned towards the older wizard. He looked nervous again, and slightly uncomfortable, but Severus did not have the heart within him to care.

"What do you want?" he asked as he crossed the sitting room to retrieve the brandy he'd been nursing.

"You weren't in the potions lab, so I thought—"

"A rarity indeed," he cut in coldly. "If you have nothing of interest to say, Mr. Potter, then please leave. I have better things to do than deal with your meddling."

Potter had the decency to look away at that, and Severus felt oddly vindicated. It was not Potter's place to interfere with his life, especially when Potter knew nothing of the wounds at which he prodded.

The boy's moment of regret was short-lived. "It's a bitter pill, isn't it? Good advice, I mean."

It took a good deal of effort not to hurl his brandy at the boy. "I do not recall asking for your advice, Potter."

The boy cut him short before he could start in on a tirade and compounded his rudeness by making himself comfortably at home and sitting on the couch. "You didn't," he agreed amiably as he set aside a throw pillow. "But that first night in the hospital made me think of something."

He looked over at Severus, naked eyes pinning the man to his seat and stealing his breath. Potter should have been a Legilimens to have such eyes. It wasn't fair.

"That night, the night you sat beside me, I was thinking that I had lost everything. Sirius, Remus," his voice thickened slightly and he turned away, "Ginny . . ." He turned back, eyes suspiciously bright. "But then, you've lost everyone, too, haven't you? And yet, despite everything, you tried to comfort me that night."

Severus clenched his jaw and looked away.

"I've got Ron and 'Mione and Neville and Luna and the rest. Who do you have, Snape?"

The question should have sounded offensive or mocking or even pitying. Instead, the boy's voice bled with compassion, that same pitying compassion of Albus's against which he'd been helpless. That same compassion of Lily's against which he'd been breathless.

"I need no one, Potter." His breath seemed short and his grip on the snifter tightened.

"Do you really believe that?" the Auror asked somewhat incredulously. "Do you really think that Albus would want you like this? That that woman you loved would?"

_"I don't need help from filthy little Mudbloods like her!"_

_A flicker of hurt. She blinked. And then her fiery green eyes were harder and colder than he'd ever seen them. "Fine. I won't bother you in the future. And I'd wash your pants if I were you, _Snivellus. _"_

Severus released a shuddering breath and took a far deeper draught of his drink than was appropriate. "She is dead," he responded in a flat voice. Part of him wanted to leap up and accuse Potter of doing this intentionally. But Potter could never dissemble and his face was the picture of earnest and helpful Gryffindor naivety. Besides, he was _so tired_ of being dragged over this particular set of coals . . .

Potter watched him with all the helpful frankness of an amateur surgeon pushing his patient towards death. "But _you're_ alive."

Severus threw back his head and laughed, a harsh, unpleasant noise. "Go home, Potter." His black eyes glittered harshly. "There is nothing here for you. I don't need your help and I don't need your pity.

_"I don't need help from filthy little Mudbloods like her!"_

He closed his eyes wearily in a fruitless attempt to bury the past, but the memory continued to echo in his mind.

He could feel the boy's eyes boring into him. "Not pity . . . Consider it a debt."

Severus looked up sharply.

"I owe you, right? At least let me help you with the potions."

_Debt. Loss. Love._

These were all things that Severus was well acquainted with—mistakes of his youth that had ruined his life and left his midlife as nothing more than the wreckage of a single series of disasters.

He closed his eyes tiredly. "Go away, Potter."

The boy remained in there in silence for several moments before standing and leaving with heavy footsteps.

The bottle of brandy, half-full when Potter arrived, did not last the night.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

Two days later when Potter appeared at the door of the potions lab, Severus merely pointed him to 'his' workbench. "Continue with the mouse fur." The rest of the evening passed in peaceful silence.

For months the pattern continued in the same fashion as before, as though their uncomfortable altercation had never occurred to him. Gradually conversation began to come into play, first something about Potter's work and then something about the new Board of Trustee's appointment, and somehow—inexplicably—Severus found himself _comfortable_ with the boy. He looked forward to their quiet evenings of work. He looked forward to the lively evenings of debate. And he was startled to find that Potter's tongue was just as sharp as his own and that he actually _enjoyed_ exchanging barbs with the boy.

Other people noticed their growing comfort with one another as well. Minerva remarked on it in passing one night at supper, congratulating Severus for burying the hatchet and becoming Potter's friend. He looked at her as though she'd grown a second head. Such a thing had never even entered his head, although in retrospect, it was true. Severus Snape and Harry Potter were . . . _friends_.

_Friends._

Confidants, even. When Potter had a difficult time, he never failed to launch into an acerbic tirade about whoever had upset him the moment Severus prodded him. And Severus . . . Severus was not sure how many of his own rants Potter had diffused with a simple deadpanned joke.

He never asked for Potter's opinion of the situation, rather confident that the boy would spout off something silly and sickeningly heartening. While shadows of loss still clouded Potter's eyes, his obnoxiously hopeful disposition had quickly made a comeback. It was disturbing how much that pleased Severus, too. Watching Potter laugh . . . well, it was like seeing Lily all over again. And he was rapidly becoming addicted to the sight.

Still, their peculiar friendship was mostly based around Potter's determination to restock Severus's supply cabinets and help with the potions for the wards. They did not go places. They did not '_pal around_' Hogsmeade and he _certainly_ was not going to be attending any Weasley functions as "Potter + 1" on any invitations. Their friendship was limited to his potions lab and the dungeons of Hogwarts. And ultimately, a dungeon was no place for a lion. He knew it and Potter knew it. The end of this brief peace was inevitable.

And so, when the last ward went up, it was with reluctance and a somewhat heavy heart that Severus silently bid farewell to their relationship. It was nothing short of bewildering then, when one week later on his usual night, Potter once more appeared at the door to his quarters, grinning and holding a bottle of brandy and what appeared to be a book in his hands.

"Take a look at this," he ordered, shoving the volume into Severus's hands as he breezed into the older wizard's private quarters. "Hermione found it in the stacks at the Ministry. They were going to throw it away. Can you believe that?"

Severus stared, speechless and with the door still standing open as the young man grabbed two snifters from the liquor cabinet and set them on the sitting room table. He began to pour the brandy while continuing as though Severus had responded.

"So she took a look at it and thought you might find it interesting. I told her I'd drop it off when I saw you tonight." The boy stood and held out a snifter of brandy to Severus. "This is your brand, right? I saw you were drinking it that night." He suddenly frowned, finally noticing that the other man had not moved. "Alright there, Snape?"

Severus continued to stare; he was sure his confusion must be showing on his face. ". . . What are you doing here, Potter?"

"It's our night, isn't it?" he asked, as though his presence there was the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe it was.

Severus was starting to notice that he had a difficult time denying Potter things; it was a worrying weakness. He looked down at the book in his hands only to note that it was actually an incomplete manuscript. It looked mildly interesting—something to do with mixing charms and potions or some such nonsense—then he paused when he saw the author.

". . . Damocles Belby?" He looked over at the grinning young man sharply. "The Damocles Belby who invented Wolfsbane Potion?"

Potter nodded, looking quite proud of himself. And he probably had a right to be. Belby had died during the war, and with him went the manuscript he had been working on—something that was supposed to revolutionize the Wolfsbane Potion. Severus opened the manuscript almost reverently. He and Belby had met several times at potions summits, but they had never been able to establish a real working relationship; Severus's role as a spy made such a thing impossible. He had had nothing but respect for the other Potions Master, however, and considered it a true loss that the man and his work had been destroyed. But if the work survived . . .

"Doesn't his family want this? Doesn't he have a brother in Scotland . . .?"

Potter sat down and took a sip of brandy. "Not really. They kept the estate and willed the whole of his work to the Ministry. Apparently the brothers had a major falling out a few years back. But the Ministry has so many documents and books to go through because of all the seizures from the war that everything's being triaged into either storage or trash until it can all be catalogued properly. Hermione is looking into the documents being sent into the trash during her free time. She's actually found some pretty interesting stuff. But she thought that, given your interest in the potion, you might find this useful."

Severus looked over, truly touched for reasons he couldn't quite understand. "Thank you, Potter."

Potter grinned and handed him the snifter of brandy. "You _can_ call me Harry, you know."

"And why would I do that?" The question was both playful and cautious and Severus swirled his brandy to avoid looking at the other man.

Oblivious to his apprehension, Potter responded in his irritatingly simplistic way: "Well, we're friends, aren't we?"

The Potions Master's mouth twitched towards a sneer as he continued staring into the amber liquor. "And should I invite you to call me 'Severus' now?"

For a moment Potter was silent. Then he chuckled, a genuine laugh. Severus looked up to catch the glow of it in his eyes and couldn't help but be drawn in a bit.

"I never thought of that. You've always just been 'Snape.'"

The Potions Master frowned at that. "I'm sure."

But the very next week when Potter showed up at his door, the word 'Harry' was out of his mouth before he could think on it.

In retrospect, he would look back and remember why he had been so intent on distancing himself from the boy when he first saw him. He would remember why he had hidden himself away and been intent on hating the boy. But that determination was long gone now; he was ensnared. He could fight and resist as long as he wanted, but ultimately Potter just seemed to breeze into his life, innocently turn it all on its head, and win his way with nothing more than stubbornness and green eyes. Severus could deny him _nothing_. And he didn't really want to.

That was perhaps why, several months later, when leaving after indulging in perhaps a little too much wine, he didn't push the boy away when he leaned over and clumsily kissed him.

He should have. Potter was tipsy and tired and his heart was still wounded from Ginny Weasley's death. He should have, but he didn't. He didn't kiss back either, nor did they ever mention it again.

Still, he could not quite find the heart to push Potter away the next time it happened. And the third time it happened, he pulled the young man back into his quarters.

He didn't know what they were now. _Friends?_ A little too much, perhaps. Or not enough. But Potter certainly seemed happy writhing under him in the night, so he was hard-pressed to feel any guilt about it. And then gradually there were Potter's clothes in his dresser and Potter's shoes under the bed and Potter's robes on the peg and simply . . . Potter. Potter, worming his way into his life like a serpent. And Severus lacked the moral fortitude to complain—especially when Lily's eyes smiled at him over the breakfast table in the morning.

It was probably not what Albus had intended, but there was hardly any harm to it.

He should have known that such a thing was not meant to last.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**


	6. To Expiate

**_To Stay the Shadow_**  
- Vain  
03.01 – 04.27.2008

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**Standard Disclaimer:**  
I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. All the definitions preceding the chapters are taken from "The Devil's Dictionary," by Ambrose Bierce, originally published in newspapers in a serialized version between 1881 and 1906 as "The Cynic's Word Book," and then bound and republished in 1911 under its current name.

**Summary:** SS/HP slash. Once upon a time Severus Snape fell in love. And then everything went wrong.

**Warnings: ****SS/HP slash**, Book 6 & 7 S.P.O.I.L.E.R.S. Please note, this story is **NOT** Book 7 compliant; AU-ish; language; angst.

**Rated: R**

**Length:** roughly 25,400 words.

**Notes:** This fic was written for the 2008 Snarry Games for Team Phoenix.

**Prompts**: Reckoning & Ashes of Youth; **Genre**: Angst

**Special Thanks** once again to the mods for not killing me after email # 3, and especially to my _invaluable_ betas **Venivincere**, **Alisanne**, & **Ziasudra** for beating me with Spelling, Grammar, and Diction Sticks (and to **Bethbethbeth** and **Tsujton** for the additional edits). They are now my personal heroes and made this story a thousand times better; all remaining errors are solely my own. Also, much love to the rest of Team Phoenix for all their help and support. This would _never_ have been completed if not for you guys' feedback and encouragement.

**Plagiarism is no one's friend.**

Enjoy!

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**Part Six:  
To Expiate**

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**LOVE,** _n._ A temporary insanity curable by marriage or by removal of the patient from the influences under which he incurred the disorder.

This disease, like _caries_ and many other ailments, is prevalent only among civilized races living under artificial conditions; barbarous nations breathing pure air and eating simple food enjoy immunity from its ravages.  
It is sometimes fatal, but more frequently to the physician than to the patient.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

_S_everus sat in his chair, drinking brandy.

The brandy was a different brand, but the chair was the same on he'd sat in when Potter had first come here years ago, back when the wards had been weak, broken things and he was still flushed with victory and crushed by mourning. When the world loved him and new beginnings seemed so inevitable . . . . Three years.

He'd come back from classes the day after Potter left to find all the boy's things gone. It was hardly a surprise, but it hurt nonetheless. He imagined that they had all been taken to the boy's flat in London. He'd never given it up. Living with Severus had just been an arrangement of convenience. It wasn't even a formal thing; it had merely _happened_ much like everything else in Potter's life.

No direction . . . no orientation . . . just . . . luck and wit. Severus had always had too much of the latter and not enough of the former.

His quarters looked surprisingly bare without the Gryffindor's inescapable presence. Potter had been gone only three weeks and yet it seemed like years. This was particularly puzzling to Severus as they had been living together for over two years, which now only seemed like a handful of days. It was disturbing to Severus how easily his life fell into a routine of teaching and grading and meals, all without Potter. No more inane chatter during breakfast, no more of the boy's drowsy, sleep-mussed looks when Severus got up early in the morning to prepare for classes. No more listening to the brat's off-key singing in the shower. No more shoes scattered across the bedroom floor. No one to come home to. No one to wake up to. No one . . .

It was like Potter had never even been here at all.

But of course, he _had_ been here. Severus knew that as surely as he knew the sound of his own heartbeat. And if ever he forgot, he had the pitying gazes of his coworkers to remind him. While his relationship with Potter was hardly met with wild enthusiasm, most were wise enough to keep their opinions to themselves. They unfortunately seemed to lack the same discretion when it came to the relationship's dissolution. It hadn't taken long for the castle to discover that Harry Potter was no longer in residence—Hermione Weasley's Howler had seen to that. Even if he'd managed to dash out of the Great Hall before the damned thing had gone off, the first part of it was readily audible through the castle walls as the door slammed shut behind him. Being accused of being 'the absolute lowest kind of person' was not how Severus had wanted to start his morning.

Minerva's attempts to be consoling were not comforting either. Comfort and Minerva McGonagall went together like cats and crups. He didn't know what was more awkward—her attempts to draw him out or the grimace he knew was on his face as he sat there and endured it. Either way, it had been a waste of the woman's time. He did not need or want a confidante and had no desire for such a thing since Albus's death. And he wasn't going to talk to her about _Potter_ of all people.

_"We're worried about you, Severus. I understand that you're hurting right now, but remember that we are all here for you, too. Hogwarts is a family."_ It had been her attempt to guilt him into a reply. Albus had always been much better at manipulating him; Minerva was too forceful. Too rough. Not enough Slytherin under the Gryffindor.

But he had a large measure of respect for the older woman and so held his tongue, choosing silence over the option of spitting vitriol at her. Maybe he really was mellowing in his old age.

Besides, she really did not understand anything. Minerva was his coworker, not his friend. He'd lost that the night Harry Potter had reached his hand into his Pensieve. He wasn't sure how he had expected things to end for them, but that was not it. His love for Lily was to remain a dark secret—a dream from another life. The anonymous woman he'd loved was never supposed to have a face. Never. Not for Potter. Not when every time he looked at the boy, all he could see was Lily.

And the boy had reacted just as expected. With rage. With hurt. With disgust.

And Severus had reacted just as expected. With coldness. With dispassion. With self-righteous anger.

This was all Albus's fault. If he had never extracted that damn promise—never forced Severus to discharge his debt in such a manner . . .

_If he had just left me alone then none of this would have happened!_

Har—_Potter!_ would never have wormed his way into his life. He would never have gotten acclimated to the whelp's presence. And really, that was all that this could be. He'd never shown the brat a scrap of affection—nothing unusual at least. Potter was, after all, more than marginally attractive and he was only a man. How could he resist the brat when he looked at him with _those_ eyes?

If Potter had never gotten those damned contacts, never been so insistent, never answered him that night in the hospital, never—

But the regrets were meaningless. Ultimately, Potter _had_ done all those things and he had never once pushed the boy away because he saw all the wrong things when he looked at him. But worst of all, he saw Lily's face, and that was what had damned him in the end.

And so it came to pride. He had done it all over again, said all the wrong things, and in the end Potter was gone and his past was sitting on the tip of his tongue, tasting of ashes. It was like losing Lily all over again.

Three weeks. Three weeks and no Potter. Three weeks and no notes, no letter, no pleas for an explanation—for Severus to say that it wasn't true and the Pensieve had been a lie or a joke. Three weeks of silence in comparison to three years of _her_ bright eyes and _her_ laughter and _her_ smiles and caresses.

Except that it _hadn't_ been her. And while his head could not forget that, his heart didn't care.

Potter had been sitting at the small dining room table, tucked away near the back of the sitting room when he'd entered that night. The light from the fireplace did not reach quite that far back into the room and the shadows made him look older—ominous. Or perhaps it had just been the atmosphere.

Dark green eyes, colder than he'd ever known them to be, looked over as Severus had closed the door behind him. There was no greeting. "I met a man today. His name is Linus Marsigliano. Do you remember him?"

And for reasons Severus couldn't quite explain, he felt his stomach drop a bit. He reacted by hanging up his robes with a bit more vigor than necessary. "No." His voice was crisp and sharp. "Should I? And why are you sitting here in the dark?"

"You should," Harry continued, ignoring the second question. His eyes followed Severus as the older wizard moved across the room to light the candelabras. "He knew you. He was a year below you in school—Ravenclaw—but he remembered you well. You used to hang out in Library, he said. . . . With my mum."

Severus stopped. It was not so much from Harry's words, but rather from the sight of the broken lock on the now-open cabinet that he kept his personal potion stock in. His potions stock, and his Pensieve . . . a Pensieve which now lay on the floor in several pieces, the silver liquid still in a puddle on the stone floor.

He stared down at the puddle, his heart a stone in his chest. His voice sounded strange and distant to his own ears. ". . . You were in my Pensieve again, boy."

Again, Potter continued as though he had not spoken. Severus could feel his eyes burning into his back. "He said you were in love with her." His voice dropped, becoming impossibly quiet. "He said you were always in love with her. Is it true?"

His hands were trembling, but whether it was from rage or fear, he didn't know. Severus bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood before turning around. He was not dealing with a frightened fifteen year old boy now. He was dealing with a very angry and very powerful wizard, and though his growing rage may have been enough to make him forget this, the barely contained waves of power leaking off of Harry were stark reminders. He turned slowly and lifted his chin, eyes narrowed in challenge.

Harry stared back, eyes like tunnels. "So then I asked a few other people. People from 'the old crowd.' They said there was no one you prized more." Harry smiled suddenly, an oddly inappropriate expression for the betrayal and _hurt_ in those eyes. Lily's eyes. "And they looked so _sorry_ for me when they said it—"

"What do you want me to say, Potter?" he snapped, slightly alarmed by the unshed tears he saw in his lover's eyes.

"Did you love her? Do you still love her?"

Severus clenched his jaw and pressed his lips together as if to say that the answer would have to be torn from him.

The reaction made Harry surge to his feet. "**_ANSWER ME, SNAPE!_**" And the candelabras flared to life with such force that they scorched the ceiling.

Severus took a step back and reached toward his wand in alarm as the lighting dropped to normal levels, but Potter ignored the motion and pointed at the shattered Pensieve instead. "I _saw_ your Pensieve! I _saw_ your bargain with Albus! I _saw_ the rest of that memory he showed me! I _saw_ your memories of her!"

Reminded of the violation, Severus stood straight up, using his greater height to advance on the other man. "You had no right—!"

"No right?! _You had no right to fuck me while you were thinking of my mother!_"

The Potions Master stopped, feeling as though he'd been struck.

This time Harry advanced, and the candelabras trembled on their chains with the act. "How dare you talk to me about love and moving on when you've been carrying a torch for the same woman for twenty years and you _won't let her go_!" He whirled on his heel and pressed his fingertips against his temples as though in pain. "Not when you're sleeping with her goddamn _son_ and thinking of _her_." Harry rubbed his face in exhaustion. "Do you even understand how _twisted_ that is?!"

Severus's hands were balled into fists so tight that his nails broke the skin of his palms. "_You_ were the one that started this, Potter—!"

"Because you made me fall in love with you!" he snapped back viciously, looking as though he wanted to advance again. "Because I didn't know it was your way of playing house _with my mother!_ For God's sake, Severus, your Patronus is her fucking _doe_!"

_And yours is a stag . . ._

But the thought was crushed, drowned out by the growing pain in his chest—a pain which was achingly familiar, but he could do nothing to assuage. He felt his rage ebb away into nothing but flat emptiness.

Perhaps sensing the change, Harry looked at him with pained eyes for a moment, begging some sort of explanation. But he had none to give.

Harry sat down heavily in the chair again and rested his hand on the table in front of him, fingers interlaced. Severus followed suit, unsure of what else he could do.

Harry's knuckles were red from being rubbed too much, Severus noted dully. Harry had been wringing his hands again. He wondered how long the boy had been sitting there in the darkness, waiting for him.

The silence stretched on unbearably.

It was not supposed to be like this. Somehow, he thought he deserved more than this.

Hadn't he done his duty?

Kept his promise?

Ha—_Potter_ looked up. "We're done."

The dusty whisper broke the silence and surprised the Potions Master so much that he started. For one wild moment he wondered if he had been the one to say it, but then Ha—(_Potter, damnit!_)—looked up, looking as though something within him had shattered. Severus froze beneath that emerald gaze, unable to say anything. If the boy wanted to, he could kill him right now . . . simply dash him away in a hopelessly overwhelming burst of magic before Severus could ever hope to raise a proper defense.

Harry licked his lips and Severus had to pretend for a moment that he was not painfully aware of what that tongue felt like on his skin.

"I said that we're done now," Potter repeated in that dry, too old voice. The betrayal in his eyes cut deeply. "Your debt is absolved."

Somehow, Severus had not expected that.

"Aren't you going to go?" the boy demanded harshly, voice cracking pitifully at the end. "Aren't you going to—" He broke off and looked away, choked for a moment.

Severus stared at him across the small table and did not move. For a long moment, the only noise was a log popping in the fire. Harry still did not look at him and the room seemed unbearably hot. Potter twisted away from his cold, piercing gaze like a bit of tinder licked by flames.

Severus's eyes narrowed. "These are my quarters."

The words hung in the air like a physical thing and Harry . . . _Potter_ flinched and looked up at him with a hopelessly wounded expression.

Severus said nothing.

"I . . . I see." The boy stood, reddened hands shaking.

He pushed his chair in under the table and Severus watched in silence. The boy's shoulders were shaking. And when he raised his gaze to the older wizard's again, his green eyes looked clouded behind a thick veil of unshed tears.

"Did I mean anything to you? _Me_?" he asked after a pause. "Anything at all?" His voice trembled, but somehow seemed strong all the same. "This . . . Any of this . . . Did it ever matter to you? At all? W-when we made lo—" He caught himself, staring hard into his former lover's eyes. "When we _fucked_ . . ." The word sounded cold and harsh coming from his mouth. "Did it mean anything to you? Even for an instant?"

The Slytherin met his gaze calmly. He knew the answer the boy wanted. The spilled memories on the floor were evidence enough of that. And perhaps he was guilty of the implied accusation. But he didn't owe Potter anything. Not when memories of _her_ lay splattered across the floor.

"Potter, when we began this . . . 'liaison,' you asked me why I permitted it. I told you then that you were the burden I had chosen to carry until my life's end. Did you think I was joking? Do you think that you have ever been anything more to me than an obligation?"

Harry stared at him, seeming to be searching for something, but Severus simply stared back. What is not present cannot, after all, be found, no matter how hard one searches. After a few minutes, Harry seemed to realize this too, for he stood, back straight, and turned to go, head bowed sadly. "Then I release you from your obligation, Severus Snape. You truly are free now."

And then he was gone and Severus was alone again.

Alone.

It was intolerable. _Intolerable!_

Abruptly the Potions Master hurled his glass across the room. It exploded against a bookshelf with a pop of glass and a splatter of liquid.

He'd been alone for years, so why now did the ache settle in?

He was still for a moment, his thoughts a slow buzz due to the alcohol in him. It made it easier to think and get a hold on his emotions. There had to be something he could do to coax the boy back to him. Pride had been his mistake all those years ago and he would not repeat the errors of his youth again if it could be helped.

If only he had gone after him. If only he hadn't gotten so angry. If only he had just _apologized_ . . .

But he would fix this this time. He would not spend the rest of his life regretting the past.

After a moment of consideration, he stood and walked over to the desk. He could do this. He had to.

_Dear Harry,_

_I am sorry. Please contact me; I want to explain everything to you._

_- S. Snape_

He would take this down to the Owlery tomorrow and have his eagle owl send it to London. Even if Harry wasn't at his flat now, he would be there eventually. The boy was famous, after all. He couldn't hide forever.

The letter would be a start. He just needed to sit Potter down and talk with him—make him _understand_. He could fix it. Besides, eventually the Gryffindor would be back. After all, Harry needed him. Everyone knew that.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**


	7. To Remonstrate

**_To Stay the Shadow_**  
- Vain  
03.01 – 04.27.2008

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**Standard Disclaimer:**  
I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. All the definitions preceding the chapters are taken from "The Devil's Dictionary," by Ambrose Bierce, originally published in newspapers in a serialized version between 1881 and 1906 as "The Cynic's Word Book," and then bound and republished in 1911 under its current name.

**Summary:** SS/HP slash. Once upon a time Severus Snape fell in love. And then everything went wrong.

**Warnings: ****SS/HP slash**, Book 6 & 7 S.P.O.I.L.E.R.S. Please note, this story is **NOT** Book 7 compliant; AU-ish; language; angst.

**Rated: R**

**Length:** roughly 25,400 words.

**Notes:** This fic was written for the 2008 Snarry Games for Team Phoenix.

**Prompts**: Reckoning & Ashes of Youth; **Genre**: Angst

**Special Thanks** once again to the mods for not killing me after email # 3, and especially to my _invaluable_ betas **Venivincere**, **Alisanne**, & **Ziasudra** for beating me with Spelling, Grammar, and Diction Sticks (and to **Bethbethbeth** and **Tsujton** for the additional edits). They are now my personal heroes and made this story a thousand times better; all remaining errors are solely my own. Also, much love to the rest of Team Phoenix for all their help and support. This would _never_ have been completed if not for you guys' feedback and encouragement.

**Plagiarism is no one's friend.**

Enjoy!

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**Part Seven:  
To Remonstrate**

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**RECONCILIATION,** _n._ A suspension of hostilities.  
An armed truce for the purpose of digging up the dead.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

_N_o one really listened to Minister Weasley as he gave his speech at the White Tomb for the anniversary of Albus's death. It wasn't that Arthur was a poor speaker; it was just that it was difficult to understand what he was saying when he was choked up with tears. Even years later, the sting of Albus Dumbledore's death still felt fresh to most of the ceremony's attendees.

Sitting in the front row, surrounded by his friends, Harry could barely focus on the words coming out of Mr. Weasley's mouth. Part of it was due to the memory of Albus Dumbledore. He felt the Headmaster's presence most strongly when he was at Hogwarts, but here at the man's tomb there was a different sense of the Headmaster—a sense of sorrow . . . of things left incomplete. It was too strongly reminiscent of the man at the end of his days as he stood withered and defeated-looking. It was a memory that was difficult for Harry to handle.

. . . Especially when he could feel the dark eyes of someone else in that memory boring into the back of his skull. He'd seen Severus come with the rest of the Hogwarts entourage, but had made no attempt to approach. He was, in fact, actively avoiding him. Though it had been two months since he and the Deputy Headmaster had parted ways, Harry still did not feel up to the task of seeing the man. It also did not help that he had receive no less than twelve letters thus far, begging an audience with him. Well, not begging—Severus Snape did not beg; he quietly demanded. But it was beginning to wear on his nerves.

He didn't want to see Severus, not until he had a little time to think, at least. It was beyond disturbing to remember what he had seen in Severus's Pensieve—to remember his mother's face overlaying his own in Severus's eyes at times. It was sickening. But he also needed to sort through the hurt it had caused, as well as the rather distressing realization that he was actually _jealous_ of his own mother.

In truth, he could understand the issue of his promise to Albus. It rankled, but Severus had always looked out for him. If anything else, he was more frustrated by Albus's machinations than by Severus's idiotic desire to protect him. But it was a cowardly thing for Severus to hide behind—especially when his mother was tossed into the mix.

He loved Severus. It was probably not the most normal of relationships, but he'd been happy. Snape, he had thought, understood what it meant to lose everything—what it meant to find your life in ashes around you in a breath. What it meant to rebuild. It was something that Harry could not find amongst his other friends. While they had all lost people in the war, none of them _really_ knew what it was like to face the darkness alone. Severus did.

Maybe he knew a bit _too_ well. Harry didn't understand how he was supposed to deal with something like that. How could _anyone_ deal with finding something like that?

The worst of it was knowing—absolutely _knowing_—that Severus had never loved him. Perhaps it was his own fault. Severus had never said the words—nor had he, after all; perhaps he was being presumptuous. But it wasn't until he heard Marsigliano's offhand comment when Severus's name came up in passing that he understood how much he cared for Snape. It had hurt. He felt like a fool.

For so long, Minerva and Arthur and other members of the Order had been against their relationship. Though he spoke to the deceased Headmaster's portrait frequently, Albus had always been silent on the matter, merely looking sad. No one had ever told him. He had never understood.

But of course something like that wasn't something you just _told_ someone. He felt betrayed. Someone should have _told_ him. He should not have had to find out from the cold touch of a memory.

And Albus . . . He had always known.

"_Exactly_ her eyes, Severus."

It didn't seem right.

The ceremony ended quietly and the crowd moved to disperse. There was to be a luncheon reception afterward and, though Harry was not particularly up to the task, he had promised Ron and Hermione he'd stay. He'd been burying himself in work since he and Severus had split up and it was beginning to take its toll. Still, he'd rather be at the office now, if only because Severus would not be there. He knew that the man would try to corner him—aggression was in Severus's nature, after all—but he was in no mood for it. He would have skipped out on the service altogether had it been for almost anyone else.

The anniversary of Ginny's death would be in a few weeks, too. The thought pained him.

He could understand Severus in that regard perhaps. He missed her. He missed the life they might have had together. He missed the woman she was growing to become. He missed her laughter and her smiles and her levelheaded sensibility. It seemed he'd only realized how much she meant to him after she was snatched away. She was the woman he'd meant to spend the rest of his life with.

But she was _gone_. It hurt, but he accepted it. Gone, like Sirius and Remus and Mad Eye and all the others. He knew that. And he knew that one day he would see her beyond the Veil. For her, he could wait. He could be patient and live out the life she had given him.

Severus, though, had never made peace with his mother's death. He clung to memories like a lifeline and in the end was drowning himself. Harry would not, _could_ not be a part of that.

It was, of course, impossible for them to avoid one another while in such a small crowd, but Harry could certainly try. After the service Harry hovered near Neville and his girlfriend, a plump and vivacious woman who was also making a name for herself in botany. Luna, ever the independent sprite among them, had wandered off as part of her ever-constant search for some odd creature that may or may not have existed, leaving him to an only marginally interesting discussion about Venomous Tentacula. After five full minutes of smiling politely and nodding, Harry delicately extracted himself from the conversation by dragging in Janie Lance, the American who had replaced Vector. While nice, Lance was not particularly fond of him for reasons unknown and so he felt little guilt about leaving the woman at the mercy of the two besotted botanists.

Once free, he turned, hoping to find to Ron or Hermione and instead found himself face to face with the one man he'd sought to avoid. Harry could have kicked himself. They stopped, frozen, and stared at one another, oblivious to the swirl of people moving around them. No one seemed to notice the sudden thickening of the atmosphere.

Finally, Harry nodded in acknowledgement, the barest incline of his head. "Severus."

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence before Severus returned the nod. "Harry."

The Auror frowned, noting how forced his name sounded coming from the other man's lips. "If you'll excuse me," he muttered as he moved to push past the man, "I have to go."

A surprisingly strong arm snaked out as he passed and grabbed his forearm. "Wait."

The word was bit out in frustration, but there was an odd urgency there, too, something that made Harry's resolve falter for a moment. He stopped, but jerked his arm out of the older man's hold.

"What for?" he asked, certain to keep a cold edge to his voice.

Severus sighed and a flicker of irritation crossed his face. He never had liked explaining himself. "I wish to . . . clear the air, so to speak. I owe you an explanation."

Harry pressed his mouth into a thin line. It was probably not the wisest thing to do, but he also did not want Snape to continue exhausting Hogwarts owls by sending him letter after letter, either. And people were starting to notice they were talking. He grunted in acceptance and turned, pausing a moment for Snape to begin to follow him.

As they slowly walked a ways away from the gathering, Harry wondered what kind of hell Hermione would give him about doing this. While Harry had not explained the issue with his mother to her and Ron, he had explained the issue of the man's promise to Albus. He'd had to tell them something when he'd arrived on their doorstep looking so upset, after all. He had not, however, predicted that Hermione's protective instincts would kick in. And she was a witch that most people did _not_ want to aggravate. Still, she hadn't done anything more harmful than send a Howler thus far, but Harry didn't know what she'd do if she found out about his mother and all the letters.

They stopped at a grove of trees about a hundred yards from the gathering. Harry turned expectantly, arms crossed over his chest in what he knew was a defensive posture, but he was too on edge to care. "Explain. And keep it short."

The Potions Master's face hardened, but Harry was unmoved. It had been a long time since Severus Snape had been able to scare him. Severus was not a kind man by any measure, nor was he a harmless one, but Harry had seen true monsters, and Snape did not measure among the lot.

The older wizard turned stiffly, looking uncomfortable. "I have . . . wronged you." He bowed his head stiffly, looking both disturbed and disgruntled. "And I am sorry."

". . . You have 'wronged' me . . ." Harry paused a moment, as though trying out the word to see how well it fit into his mouth. He stared hard at the man. "Severus, do you even understand why I left?"

For all his skills, Severus Snape did not wear contrition very well and it showed. He waffled for a moment, like a child trying to escape a punishment, and Harry glowered. "You don't, do you? Or do you just not care?"

"I will not stand here and reiterate facts that we both already know, Potter," Severus bit back, aggravation clearly winning out over being penitent. "I have been trying for weeks to contact you and now that I have, all you want to do is hash over issues of the past. I cannot undo what has been done."

"Not the past, Severus," Harry hissed, trying hard to resist the urge to yell at the stubborn man. "The present. The future. How can you think that this is something that's just going to be swept under the rug? I'm not going to forget the past and clearly, neither are you."

"We were happy together."

Harry stared, unable to understand how someone so intelligent could view the world with such simplicity. "I doesn't work like that, Severus. You can't divide the world into white or black, them or us. This has nothing to do with whether or not we were happy."

The man moved to protest, but Harry waved his hand, cutting him. "No! I told you, we're done." He turned to go. "Just leave me alone, alright? I need space."

Severus grabbed his wrist, pulling him back again. The grip was strong enough to bruise, but the younger wizard said nothing and instead glared at the other man.

"Don't walk away from me as though this were over Potter! We _were_ happy together. That has to mean something."

"It was a _lie_, Severus. You _lied_ to me. You may have never lied to me directly," he continued when it looked like the other man might protest, "but you lied by omission and it's just as bad. If it wasn't important, then you would have _told_ me the first night we kissed. Now let go of my arm. This conversation isn't worth having if you won't listen."

Severus only responded by squeezing his arm still more tightly, past the point where he had to know he was causing pain. Harry narrowed his eyes, slightly alarmed by the behavior.

It was only then that he noticed something: Severus had not once looked away from his face . . . or more specifically, from his _eyes_.

His magic reacted before he could even think of a spell, sending a small arc of lightening down his arm and shocking his ex-lover. The Potions Master jerked back in surprise, shaking his injured hand. He turned to snap at the younger man, but stopped when he saw the livid marks around Harry's wrist. His handprint.

For a moment the two of them merely stood there, neither willing to speak. Finally Severus looked away. "You started this, Potter. Why couldn't you have just stayed away? Why did you need—" And there he broke off, turning his back.

Harry's brow furrowed as he realized what thought the man had cut off and he drew himself up angrily. "You yourself have said countless times what a burden I am. Do you really think I needed you so desperately?" Severus did not turn and Harry could feel his magic crawling along his skin. No one could ever piss him off like Severus Snape. "You arrogant bastard! I wanted you, but I never _needed_ you and I damn sure can live without you. Stop wasting my time!"

Severus turned to say something, but Harry turned and walked away. It didn't matter what Severus said. It would just be the same thing. As long as he was looking at Harry and seeing someone else, it would always be the same thing.

Because Snape had no interest in reconciling with Harry Potter. It had never been _Harry_. It was Lily.

And Harry would not stand as a substitute for a dead woman.

Severus did not follow him as he walked away, but somehow he knew that this wasn't over. It wouldn't be over until Severus let her go, and that, he feared, was the one thing Severus could never do.

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	8. To Reap

**_To Stay the Shadow_**  
- Vain  
03.01 – 04.27.2008

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**Standard Disclaimer:**  
I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. All the definitions preceding the chapters are taken from "The Devil's Dictionary," by Ambrose Bierce, originally published in newspapers in a serialized version between 1881 and 1906 as "The Cynic's Word Book," and then bound and republished in 1911 under its current name.

**Summary:** SS/HP slash. Once upon a time Severus Snape fell in love. And then everything went wrong.

**Warnings: ****SS/HP slash**, Book 6 & 7 S.P.O.I.L.E.R.S. Please note, this story is **NOT** Book 7 compliant; AU-ish; language; angst.

**Rated: R**

**Length:** roughly 25,400 words.

**Notes:** This fic was written for the 2008 Snarry Games for Team Phoenix.

**Prompts**: Reckoning & Ashes of Youth; **Genre**: Angst

**Special Thanks** once again to the mods for not killing me after email # 3, and especially to my _invaluable_ betas **Venivincere**, **Alisanne**, & **Ziasudra** for beating me with Spelling, Grammar, and Diction Sticks (and to **Bethbethbeth** and **Tsujton** for the additional edits). They are now my personal heroes and made this story a thousand times better; all remaining errors are solely my own. Also, much love to the rest of Team Phoenix for all their help and support. This would _never_ have been completed if not for you guys' feedback and encouragement.

**Plagiarism is no one's friend.**

Enjoy!

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**Part Eight:  
To Reap**

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**OUTCOME,** _n._ A particular type of disappointment.  
By the kind of intelligence that sees in an exception a proof of the rule, the wisdom of an act is judged by the outcome, the result.  
This is immortal nonsense; the wisdom of an act is to be judged by the light that the doer had when he performed it.

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_H_e watched the blood pool on the cutting board, transfixed by the sight as the small pool moved over towards the pile of almonds he'd been slicing and ruined them. It wasn't like him to let the knife slip, but then again, he wasn't quite himself these days. He had not tried to contact Potter since the disaster at Albus's memorial three months ago. He could say that it was because he was trying to honor Potter's wishes and give the other man space, but in truth, it was because he was ashamed.

The boy was being so stubborn—so intolerably stubborn—when he was _trying_ to apologize . . . But he couldn't forget the pain in those cold, narrowed eyes, nor the bruise he'd left on the Auror's arm. Sometimes Severus forgot himself and it was usually when he was angry.

He stared down at the small cut on his finger. The blood flow was already beginning to slow. He pushed the wounded digit down on the cutting board slightly, disrupting the forming platelets and coaxing more blood from the cut for a moment. The red edge of the puddle oozed. Vaguely irritated with his thoughts, the Potions Master took out his wand and banished the whole mess, knife and all. It was all contaminated with human blood now—it would be easier to just replace the materials than to purify them.

He had been trying to work through the intricacies of Belby's theory for over a year now, but he seemed to have hit a wall over the past few months. And he obviously was not going to get any work done today either. A simple skin knitting spell healed his finger and the Potions Master sighed heavily as he turned and began cleaning up the lab. The source of his malaise was hardly unknown, though. It was Potter's fault.

And that, unfortunately, seemed to have become a common mantra over the past few months. He wasn't quite certain how to fix the situation in which he found himself currently mired, and he resented the boy for it. He did not want to pine like this, yet he wasn't sure how to stop. And it certainly did not help that Potter had apparently taken to _dating_, if the papers were to be believed.

_He's moving on without you._ And yet Severus could not let it go.

He desperately wished he could turn back the clock—undo that fateful day when Potter had found that damned Pensieve. Or better yet, he should have told Minerva he was ill and simply kept the brat in bed with him for the entire day, thus avoiding any awkwardness at all.

But that wasn't realistic; even Severus had to acknowledge that. Somehow, Potter would have eventually found out about it one way or another. Perhaps the true miracle was how long it had taken him to learn about Severus's past with Lily. And it wasn't that he had tried to hide it, so much as he merely had not mentioned it. It hadn't been pertinent. Severus and Lily had never had a relationship like he and Potter had. He had lost her before they had had the chance.

And now here he was, decades later, and alone again.

Maybe he just had bad luck with Evans blood.

The thought made him laugh, but there was no humor in it.

The walk from his lab to his quarters seemed longer these days and the shadows stretched ominously along the floor. It was past lights out and the charms on the dorms assured him that all the Slytherins were safely ensconced in their bed. Though he had been worried that after the war their numbers would dwindle, every year since Hogwarts had reopened the House of the Serpent had been as full as all the other Houses and the entire staff worked to keep House rivalries to a minimum. Even Severus was more evenhanded in his classes. With the war over, such concerns seemed . . . petty. Gryffindor arrogance, Hufflepuff intemperance, Ravenclaw haughtiness, Slytherin bigotry . . . none of them seemed to have a place in the word post-Voldemort and Minerva had made it her mission to stamp out such prejudices.

Severus couldn't find it within him to care either way. With the war over, it seemed as though an age had ended and more and more these days he felt like nothing more than a throwback to another time. He sometimes wondered if Minerva felt the same way, but if she did, she gave no sign of it. More and more it seemed like Albus, great though he was, had taken the old way of doing things with him and this new age was _hers_.

Hers and Potter's and the Weasleys' . . .

But not Severus's. Any claim he may have had on this future had walked out of his life months ago.

And that was just a depressing thought.

He quickened his pace to his quarters. It wasn't like him to wallow in misery like this, but it seemed harder and harder to pull himself out of it these days. Albus was no longer there to give him a good sharp prod when needed and, with the world at relative peace, there was little call for the cloak and dagger spy business that had sustained him for so many years. It was strange, but as much as he hated it at the time, it gave him a purpose. And now he was cut off and adrift.

At times he had to wonder if Albus had foreseen this before he died. Probably, but then he probably also did not believe that Severus would survive the war. It was pure happenstance that he did, and he often found himself cursing Draco's timely good intentions that day on the Quidditch field. Draco should have _lived_. That was why he had worked so hard after all, but nothing had gone right.

Draco had died and Potter's Ginny had died and he had lived, ill equipped and uninterested in the wreckage of life that was left before him because all that he wanted was in the past.

As he entered his quarters, he stepped on something and stumbled, cursing faintly as he sidestepped the object. With a scowl, he raised his wand and ignited the candelabras to see what it was that blocked his path. Sitting atop the relatively harmless-looking bundle of scrolls was a small note from Minerva. The letters were a touch more jagged than usual, belying her currently irritable state of mind regarding his increasingly hermit-like behavior, but it was still legible.

_Severus,_

_Your mail from this morning._

_- M.M._

He snorted and walked past the scrolls without picking them up. She had no doubt held onto them all day, hoping he would appear in the Great Hall for a meal, and it amused him in some small way to needle her, however unintentional it may have been. He had not appeared in the Great Hall in a month and he had no interest in starting to do so now. At this rate, people were going to start talking, if they weren't already, but he was quite beyond caring. He had had a lifetime of people gossiping about him behind his back. He doubted they could say anything more terrible or more interesting than what had already been said.

He left the sheaves there out of spite as he requested a modest dinner from the House Elves and started to work on grading the latest round of Potions exams. This batch was a group of Sixth Year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. They were his favorite group, as the Ravenclaw / Hufflepuff groups were much less stressful than the Slytherin / Gryffindor groups, and Sixth Year was when students with a true proclivity towards Potions as an art form really began to shine. He already had three Hufflepuffs who showed tremendous promise and had his eye on a shy Ravenclaw as well.

It was not until the Elf reappeared with his dinner and helpfully placed the scrolls on his desk that he remembered them. The overly-helpful creature vanished with a blinding smile and a puff of House Elf magic as she thrust them in front of his face, forcing him to jerk back away from the exam he was reading. Her squeaky voice wished him a good night and a pleasant meal as the smoke faded.

Irritated by the interruption, he sat back and poked at his fish dinner as he began to inspect the scrolls. The first was from the Ministry. It was a finalization of the documents that would secure him the rights to the new Wolfsbane Potion if he were ever to complete it. Having expected them for several weeks now, he set them aside to inspect later. The next scroll was from _Potions Monthly_ regarding his subscription renewal and the next was from a botanist in Egypt with whom he was arranging the purchase of some Midnight-Blooming Fireflowers. Longbottom would be pleased if the project went through.

The last letter, though, made his breath catch in his throat. Though he had not seen it in months, he'd know Potter's handwriting anywhere. His hands trembled slightly as he opened the letter, unsure what he would find there.

It was short and simple, no salutations or flowery speech to add ambiguity to it. It was written with air of a man who was discharging a duty and Severus could not help but feel his trepidation increase as he read the short note.

_Severus, _

_Please meet me at Albus's tomb on Sunday at 5 PM._

_- H.P._

Hands now still, he let them rest against the ink-stained surface of his desk for a moment and stared into the fireplace. The invitation was simple and straightforward, but he could not help but think that Potter had some ulterior motive for inviting him out there. Albus's tomb was not a pleasant place for either of them to visit; the site held too many memories for them both. Not to mention their prior meeting's the lack of success.

And yet . . . he'd gotten very much into the habit of giving into Potter. Too much so, it would seem.

Cursing himself for a fool, he penned back a curt response, acquiescing to the meeting.

He may not gain anything of value from the meeting, but at least he would get to see him one last time. And, for reasons Severus did not really want to identify, he was sure that this really would be the last time.

His mind made up, a murmured spell sent the scroll to the Owlery for one of the school's owls to take to London. It would be several hours before Severus stirred from his desk, but despite all that, not a single exam would be graded by the time the night ended.

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Sunday was an obnoxiously nice day. The sun was shining and the birds were singing and it was unseasonably warm out. Even in the long light of the afternoon, Severus looked starkly out of place in his long black robes as he approached the White Tomb. Though he had not been able to go to the funeral for obvious reasons, Severus had come out here alone many times, usually at night. Albus's paintings pained him—simple acrylic and oils never able to capture the greater warmth and wisdom for which the dead wizard had been renowned.

It was only here, at the man's tomb, that Severus felt a measure of peace with the memory of his mentor, but even that was fleeting. Especially when Harry Potter was standing before the carved stone, blocking the view.

The boy was dressed in Muggle clothes: boots, faded jeans, and a blue tee-shirt, with a simple white button-down shirt worn unnecessarily over it. Severus stopped by his side without looking directly at the boy and looked at the inscription on the gleaming white stone. He wondered if Albus was watching over them at this moment from somewhere within. But the thought brought with it a visual image of the man's rotting corpse which pained him almost as much as the idea of the former Headmaster's inevitable disappointment.

He exhaled heavily and unintentionally caught a breath of the cologne worn by the man at his side. It was the scent Severus had gotten him for Christmas two years ago.

For a time, there was an uncomfortable silence between. They were only two feet apart and yet that distance might as well have been the breadth of the universe.

Unable to stand it any longer, Severus broke the silence first, unseeing eyes fixed on the tomb in from of them. It would be easier if he didn't have to look the other man in the eyes. "You're wearing your glasses."

Potter did not turn to look at him. "Just for today."

He grunted, recognizing the slight for what it was, but unwilling to rise to the bait.

The wind blew, whispering through the trees, and after it died down, Potter turned, fixing those painfully green eyes on him. He did not turn to look at them.

For a minute Potter merely stared, then he turned back to the tomb. "Minerva contacted me. She's worried about you. She asked me to talk to you."

Arms still crossed over his chest, Severus clenched his left hand into a fist. " . . . How kind of her." He turned to look at the boy, curious as to his expression. It was a familiar expression, but different somehow. Pitying this time, not compassionate. He looked away again quickly, bile rising his throat. "Have you come to gloat then?"

Harry turned again, eyes dark with anger though he held his temper. "No." His voice was quiet, but firm. "I came to try and help you. You're a good man, Severus—"

The Potions Master scoffed and turned to go. He had had enough of this. He had left Potter to his life and the boy should be content to leave him alone to his.

He barely made it a step before Potter's voice drew him back.

"I asked you once before when I left, but I want you to look at me now and rethink your answer."

Severus paused and turned to look at the other man. Harry was still standing in the same position and the wind blew through his hair, mussing it and giving him a strangely familiar untamed look. It made him look so much like James Potter that Severus felt his stomach turn.

The young man turned before Severus could think to resume his retreat and pinned him with a glance. The glasses made Potter's face look younger—more tired. But they also magnified his eyes. The boy cocked his head, as though sensing his thoughts. "Severus . . . Did you ever love me? Even for an instant? Or did you only see her or some obligation to Dumbledore?"

Severus was silent for a moment as he looked at the other man in something like appraisal. Then he pursed his lips and sighed very quietly. "I look at you and I see my life's mistakes, Potter. … Harry."

Was that love? Probably not.

Harry looked at him closely, his expression unreadable behind his spectacles. "You were there for me when no one else was, you know. You kicked my arse in gear when all I wanted to do was quit. Ginny was gone. Sirius. Remus. Albus. All of them were gone."

Severus closed his eyes and turned his head away, but he could still hear the echo of Albus's voice in his ears. _"He will be alone in the world. Does he not deserve some measure of peace in his life?"_

He forced himself to meet Harry's gaze. "I only—" _was doing my duty_ "wanted to bring you a measure of peace."

"You were bringing yourself a measure of peace." The younger man looked to his former lover and Severus couldn't help but avert his eyes from the familiar green fire he saw in that gaze.

"I would have been a better man if I could have." The words slipped out before he could stop them. They hung in the air between them, thick with bitterness.

Harry nodded, smiling slightly, though the expression had a rough edge to it. "You would have. But not for me."

For a moment Severus was quiet. He couldn't deny the veracity of the other wizard's words, but he also could not understand them. "What's the difference?"

"You don't love me!" the young man yelled suddenly, emotion finally overtaking him. Harry turned around, frustrated. His voice dropped back to a normal volume, albeit a strained one. "I am not my _mother_, Severus. Merlin, can you even understand how . . . how _twisted_ that is?" He shook his head as though to chastise him for arguing the same point again and looked away. "I loved you," he whispered, "despite _everything_, and you never even saw me."

Severus pursed his lips. He had a strong urge to reach over and comfort the other man, but knew that his touch would be rejected. ". . . I saw you enough, didn't I?"

"No," Harry countered before he could continue. The wounded expression he wore was enough to stop whatever else Severus might have said anyway. "It's not a question of _enough_. I will _not_ be a substitute for someone else—not for my father, not for my mother, and not for the person other people think I am. All my life, people have been throwing their expectations on me to see if they fit and I had thought that you maybe were different. I had thought that by the end of the war, something had changed. But nothing changed, did it? The only thing that was different was that instead of seeing James in me, you were seeing Lily, weren't you?"

Severus was silent for a moment, unable to argue against the accusation when even he could see that they held a grain of truth. His instinct was to lash out, to point out that the boy had made his own assumptions and that he was the one who started this whole relationship—and started of it out of pity, to boot. But he also knew that he was just as much at fault, if only for not disabusing the young man of his misapprehensions. . . . If only for taking advantage of the boy while he was vulnerable.

The road to hell was paved with good intentions. Still, he should have known that his happiness could never last. It never had, after all.

He looked at the young man with whom he had shared his life, if only for a brief period. ". . . I miss you."

Potter shook his head and closed his eyes as though pained. "Even now, saying such a horrible thing to me, you're thinking of _her_, aren't you?"

The Potions Master shook his head, unable to find the words he wanted to say. He wanted to grab the boy and shake him, assure him that it wasn't true. But he couldn't—not when he himself was unsure of the truth. "What do you want from me, Potter? Have I not given you enough space? Are you not satisfied with my contrition?"

"I don't want your damn contrition!" the boy spat, pulling away and increasing the distance. "I don't want to be your burden or your penitence or whatever excuse you used to absolve yourself the guilt of bedding me. I want you to take your own advice and stop torturing yourself and let her _go_. And let _me_ go."

The two of them stared at one another for a moment, Harry all quiet desperation and Severus simply an empty silence.

Then Harry sighed quietly. "For God's sake, Severus, _let her **go**._"

And Severus shook his head, unable to respond. "_I can't._" _Because she was mine. She was mine and—_

And without that memory, he had _nothing_. Nothing, and no one. He was alone in the world and he had no one. The truth of that burnt him, though it was nothing that he hadn't known before. It had always been so obvious . . .

He turned away, his voice a rough whisper. "I have nothing." _I **had** you . . _"_Nothing._"

Silence settled between them with a painful finality.

Harry stared at him for a moment as the man's words sunk in. He couldn't move forward; he couldn't be with Severus the way the man needed. But he couldn't move backwards and fix the past either. Severus's wounds, he realized, were too deep for him to heal. Too deep for anyone. He closed his eyes and turned away, at a loss. Not forward, not back . . . He couldn't do anything. A sense of despair washed over him—despair and pity—because really, love was not enough. Not when it was for Severus. And not when it was the wrong love.

And so, he did the only thing he could: he turned and walked away. He did not say goodbye; the words would have been meaningless. And though he desperately wanted to cry, he didn't let tears fall. They weren't for him, or for the ache that had taken up residence in his chest; they were for Severus, and he knew from bitter experience that tears were wasted on that cause.

Behind him, Severus gripped his left forearm and his eyes burned.

The late evening light slipped away and faded into night. The rise of a waning moon found Severus still in front of Albus's tomb, unmoved since the Gryffindor's abandonment. He knew he should go back to Hogwarts—he had work to do. Exams to grade. He knew he should leave this place where he still imagined he could smell Harry's cologne on the wind.

He knew he should leave. There was nothing here for him. But there was nothing _there_ either. Nothing but work and solitude and bed sheets where he sometimes thought Harry's scent lingered.

And so he sat when he grew too weary to stand, knees pulled up to his chest as he stared at the White Tomb. The past had left him and the future abandoned him. It had been inevitable, he supposed, but the taste of ashes still lingered on his tongue—the remnant of a past long gone.

The only refuge that remained to him was with the unfeeling dead.

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** _Fin_**

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